


The Hasimiad

by landermkerbey



Category: Original Work
Genre: Female Protagonist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-07-14 18:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16045988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landermkerbey/pseuds/landermkerbey
Summary: Spirits, gods, curses, fate; Hasimi has heard these words her entire life, often in connection with her, but never put much stock in them. For her, life was about her family, her clan, and the thrill of battle. But one day the small valley she calls home is opened to the world by a war-chief on the rise who promises to unite all the rider clans and lead them in the conquest of the world. She signs up for glory, and ends up entangled in the workings of a game far greater than she can imagine.





	1. Book I, Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally published to AO3 on September 20th, 2018. It has since been replaced with a second edition version as of October 8th, 2018.

Hasimi’s kin stood at her back, and she by her father’s side. Under the silver of a mounting dawn, four-and-seventy men and women of her clan sat astride their horses. The breeze was sweet, the sky cloudless, the smell of fresh earth rising from the grasses reminding of last night’s rains. She and her father were the only of her clan unarmed, unarmored, standing at the front of them and staring across the field at a similar mass of man and horse. Her father sighed for what must have been the fifth time since they took the field.

He turned to Segren, one-eyed and silver-haired, passing him the reins of Khagur. The great warhorse snorted as it approached the other steed in Segren’s care, Samulgian. Hasimi frowned as the beast retreated a step from her father’s mount.

“He’s too fearful. He should be a pack horse,” she said. Her father turned and put a firm hand on Samulgian’s snout, stilling his whinny.

“Give him time. He was not born with a wolf’s heart like us.” He pat the horse.

“Chieftan, old Shem is calling you forward,” Segren murmured. Her father turned to where a stout woman stood, arms outstretched, hands impatiently beckoning from both sides.

“Well, we gave them time enough to think this over.” He shook his head.

“I pray it goes well.” With that, Segren and the horses withdrew to the rest of their clan.

“Let us hope the spirits take his prayers more seriously than mine,” Father said, reaching down to slip off his leather boots. “We shouldn’t even be here.” Hasimi watched amused until she saw him chastise with the corner of his eye.

“Sorry,” she whispered, reaching down to remove her own.

“You haven’t done this with me before, but you’ll learn in good time.” He dropped the worn hide and fur to the ground, frowning at the ragged soles.

“Why do we do this?” Hasimi asked, pulling her own boots off, spreading her toes out into the chill, damp soil.

“The tea ceremony is sacred. It’s not just a meeting between two chieftans, but the spirits of the earth and sky are watching, too.” Father said ‘spirits’ with the some tone an annoyed child might name a parent.

“And the spirits don’t like boots?”

“And the spirits don’t like boots,” father echoed, snickering. “I don’t much care for their rules either, but the spirits helped us earn our freedom from the Mikshan, so going barefoot doesn’t seem too much to ask.”  
Hasimi nodded, but averted her eyes to the sky. She took in a slow, deep breath.

“The old lady looks impatient. Let’s get this done,” her father said. As she looked back down to the field before her, she saw that the three men at the front of the clan opposite them were making towards them. As near dead center between them as one could ask, the elderly woman now sat at the head of a short table, and was pouring tea from a rough bronze kettle into thick clay cups. A young man standing next to her had taken up the beckoning for her, eyes wide, hands trembling as he gestured uncertainly. The soft, wet grass folding beneath each step nearly helped Hasimi forget what they were here to do.

“Shem, it’s an honor to see you after all these years,” her father said, bowing to the woman as they reached the table.

“You have not aged a day.”

Shem scoffed, pointing to her face. “With this? Pah, you insult my younger self. But more importantly, should I expect you to complain about my tea again?” Her face was hard, like etched stone, her eyes nearly black, her hair nearly white. Though age and disuse had made the body of her youth fade away, Hasimi could still see in her forearms the heavy cords of muscle that had once drawn her bow, gripped her spear, guided her horse.

“Is it still bitter?” Father asked.

“You are still a boy if you cannot appreciate a mature taste, Narik,” Shem said.

Meanwhile, a hill of a man with a long, thick beard approached the table, flanked by two youths nearly his size. He bore jagged scars across his face and arms, the broadest wrapping round his thick neck. Though his tunic bulged around his waist, so too did it round his chest. His arms were like the legs of most men.

“Chieftan Shem, you honor us with your presence,” he said, bowing deeply, the young men following.

“Just Elder, now, Harrud. Hardly fitting for someone who cannot see enough to shoot an arrow to be chieftan, is it?” Shem said.

“Then you honor us the more, Elder.” Harrud studied Hasimi out of the corner of his eye for just a moment as he extended a hand to her father. “Narik."  
  
“Harrud,” her father returned. “I wish we could have met again some other way.”  
  
“Be seated,” Shem said, turning to the youth behind her and striking him in the shin. “Stop waving, they’re already here. Stand in silence and be ready to serve more tea.” 

As they all sat, the smell of the reddish-black brew that greeted her carried whatever vestiges of sleep may have lingered in Hasimi’s mind away as surely as an avalanche.

“I remember this scent,” Harrud said, upper lip twitching as he took in a deep breath.

“How could anyone forget it?” Narik said.

“What, any complaints from you, Harrud?” Shem barked.

“None.” The hulking man swirled the cup slowly, eyed it as one does a snake. “A bitter tea is appropriate for the occasion.”

“I imagine Shem will claim that was the idea all along,” Narik said.

“Yes, well, whimper all you like. You’ll still drink it if you want the ceremony to go forward.” Shem drank deeply from her own cup.

Hasimi reached to plug her nose, but thought better of it and took a long draught, bracing her back against the shudder that ripped through her.

“Well?” Shem asked.

Narik set down his cup. “No complaints.”

“Not that, you fool. Introductions!” She slammed the cup into the table, the kettle clattering with the impact.

“Elder Shem,” Harrud bowed his head and placing his hands on the shoulders of the young men sat with him, “These are my sons. To my right is Teygan, my eldest, entrusted to the wolf spirit. To my left is Daraz, my third son, entrusted to the hawk spirit.” His sons bowed their heads in turn, Shem humming approval.

“They look like fine men, strong like their father.” The elder turned to face Hasimi, tilting her head and squinting slightly. The tightness in her jaw slackened somewhat.

“Ah, this is my daughter, Hasimi, entrusted to her mother,” Narik said, Hasimi bowing her head low as her father gestured to her.

“Still carrying on with those stories about your lover, the goddess?” Harrud asked, an edge in his voice. Narik chuckled, shrugging. Shem was still staring when Hasimi looked up.

“Child, open your eyes wider for me,” she said.

Hasimi glanced at her father, whose smirk had fallen away. He nodded slowly, and she did as she was asked.

“Now, mind you, my sight isn’t what it used to be, but . . . they’re pale red,” Shem said. “Imagine that, the stories are true for once.”

“She’s a witch,” Teygan said, knocking back the rest of his tea and grimacing at her.

“Silence,” Harrud growled.

“All the other clans know—”

“It is not your place to speak unless spoken to. Do not shame our clan further,” the big man said, baring his teeth. Teygan shrunk back, but still glared at Hasimi. “Please, forgive my son’s insolence.”  
Harrud’s other son, Daraz, was also staring at her, but his expression was quite a bit different. He was trying to restrain a smile, one that broke through when he realized he’d been caught looking. He jerked his head in the direction of his older brother and rolled his eyes; Hasimi grinned.

“Right. Now that’s out of the way, let’s skin the beast. This earnest fool here,” Shem said, pointing to the young man by her side, “knows little of long rides and less of making camp, so I’d just as soon be back with my people before the sun has run its course. Speak honorably before the spirits of earth and sky, and most of all, do not waste my time. Harrud, what is Clan Aydun’s complaint?”

Harrud nodded and folded his arms over his broad chest.

“About three months ago, two of my kin got drunk and stole five sheep from a shepherd on my clan’s land. Sheared them, skinned them, took the mutton. When the shepherd confronted them about it, they killed him and fled. The shepherd’s wife came to me some days ago, said that she spoke to a trader who bought sheep hide and wool off some men heading northwest into Clan Shihiin’s land. Come to find those two men have been hiding in a village of yours, and the villagers wouldn’t turn them over. We took them back by force, but the villagers used your name, Narik, against us punishing them.”

Narik leaned back, his weight on his hands.

“This shepherd of yours, is he kin?”

“No. He’s one of the Mikshan on my land.”

“Let me get this straight. Some of your kin killed a Mikshan shepherd on your land, and you want to punish settled-folk in _my_ lands?”

“The Mikshan in my lands are my property. These men may be of my kin, but they are not Riders, they do not have a claim to what I own.” Harrud said. “It is theft, and the villagers stood in the way of justice. The old laws say—”

“Are you really going to throw the old laws at _me_ , of all people?” Narik said, rubbing his face. “I gave seven years to—” he paused, closing his eyes and breathing in slowly through his nose. “Listen, the old laws also say that I have the final word about what happens to people on my land.”

“Yes, but as a friend to you, I ask that you surrender them to me. If even Mikshan can escape justice, it will bring dishonor on my clan,” Harrud said.

“Who even has to know? Shem won’t tell anybody, and neither will we,” Narik said. Hasimi arched a brow, watching her father’s face for traces of a joke. His expression was utterly serious. Harrud gawped, mouth mutely forming the shapes of words as he started to redden.

“People will talk. Then all the other clans will think we are weak, and they will come at us first whenever they have want of something,” Harrud said. Teygan was shifting restlessly on the grass next to him, grinding his teeth and looking ready to leap across the table at any moment.

“See here, Clan Shihiin has its own honor to uphold. I can’t just give you those villagers; the Mikshan grow wheat for my kin and hay for our horses. They cut wood for our bows. In return, I owe them our protection and they live under my laws,” Narik said.

“So you begrudge me seeking justice for the taking of my property and protest yours being held to account?” Harrud gripped his tea cup so hard a crack shot through the fired clay.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Narik said. “You can have your justice. Your murderers can be sent back to your lands for trial; the villagers can be punished for harboring them, but Aydun men will not do these things. They will not be anywhere near the village when it happens. Clan Shihiin will capture your criminals and send them home with you, and we will punish the people who housed them and hid them according to our laws, since they live on our land. As for other clans, let them talk. If anyone raises spears against you, I will bring my clan to your defense,” Narik said. Hasimi knew the moment she looked into the older chieftan’s face that her father had picked the wrong words. She could see the swelling of a vein in his forehead, the tensing of countless muscles throughout his body, the single grind of his jaw.

“Narik,” he said, standing. “All Riders owe you a debt for what you did in the uprising, but even you can only insult me and my kin so much before I cannot bear it. You would ask my submission? I will not—”

“Then marry Daraz off to Hasimi.”

Hasimi’s head swiveled about to face her father so quickly she hurt her neck, unsure what he could have possibly said, as surely she’d misheard.

“It’s not like we didn’t discuss it enough times when they were younger. Like you said, our clans have always been close, and they like each other well enough. We’ll have blood ties, so all the trouble over this goes away.”

Everyone was staring at him now, but he looked unmoved.

“We don’t have to do this, Harrud.”

Harrud knit his brows, and his face darkened as he looked away for a moment.

“I did not want to believe the rumors I’d heard of late. I do not know who you are, but you, coward, are not the man I knew. It is said that you ran away from a fight with Clan Mirguz.”

“Harrud, mind yourself,” Shem snapped.

“And I’ve heard that Clan Aydun has had thirteen battles since last winter. How many people did you lose? What did you get for it?” Narik asked, hunching forward and pointing up at the older man.

“Have you forgotten what being a Rider is? We defended our honor!” Harrud bellowed, stirring the members of both clans far afield. Hasimi could swear that the wind had gone still.

Her father nodded slowly and drank the rest of his tea in one draught, gazing into the stain at the bottom of the cup.

“Do you remember that day when we took Yevalam?” he said. “You, Mad Heybal, Garsur, Palyan, all the chieftans, we were standing on the walls watching a thousand Riders go through the gates. All our peoples, together.”  
Harrud’s tight-drawn shoulders fell, his fists unclenched, and he seemed to deflate as he let out a breath. “What is your point, Shihiin?”

Narik said nothing.

“We offered to make you High Chief, but you turned it down. The time any of us would follow you has passed. I am done with talk,” Harrud said.

“Narik, Harrud, I urge you both to look to your children at your side. Let them remind you of what is at risk, and make your choices knowing that they may live or die by them.”

Hasimi met her father’s eyes but briefly; she saw a hundred arrows pierce his body where he sat, saw him gutted by the spear, carved by the axe. She blinked and there he sat smiling at her, unharmed.

“My daughter will not come to harm as long as I am with her; I am Narik Shihiin. Still _the_ Narik Shihiin,” he said, standing and pulling her to her feet in one motion. The strength of his arm gave body to his promise, and Hasimi looked back across the table without fear. “When you lose this fight, Harrud, remember that you asked for it.”

Shem, still seated, nodded slowly. “It is witnessed, then. Go back to your kin and tell them to make ready. I shall withdraw from the field to see the battle. Do honorably before each other, the earth, and the sky.” Before she finished speaking, her young kinsman was emptying out the remaining tea and stuffing everything into a pack. Hasimi wondered if he had ever witnessed before, ever been on a battlefield? She couldn’t help but think of her own little brother, back at camp, refusing to ride or even touch a bow.

Her father and Harrud were already both making their way back to their clans, leaving her with the Aydun chieftan’s two sons. Teygan still scowled, perhaps had not stopped scowling at her all this time.

“You’re a witch, aren’t you? Use those eyes to hex your father into having some sense. Or better yet, some humility. ‘I am Narik Shihiin.’” Hasimi felt little enough at watching him go. Daraz lingered, looking her over, listening for his brother’s footsteps to recede enough.

“This isn’t how I’d imagined meeting you again after two years,” he said.

“You’ve been imagining it?” Hasimi asked.

“From time to time. I have to say, your father’s idea sounded nice.” He took a step closer. He was not yet as tall as his father, nor as broad-shouldered as his brother, but the way he held himself spoke strength. She remembered a soft-faced boy with long hair whom she had kissed in the gorge near the Aydun summer camp, tried to match him with the stubble-faced man of seventeen years whose skin had darkened to the proper tone, whose eyes flashed where once they could barely stray from the ground. The constant fidgeting had given way to the stillness of stone. She noticed his headdress, blue bull-hawk feathers stitched into a band of cured oxhide.

“I don’t remember that,” she said, pointing.

“Oh, this?” His face lit up. “We fought the Yegahar near the Great Roots three moons ago; I took this off one of their war-druids when I slew him. That was my making-day.”

“So, you took a riding name?”

“The Swift.”

Hasimi stifled a laugh. “That’s it? It's a bit . . . normal.”

“Well, I thought about ‘Treebane’ or something, but that doesn’t make sense anywhere but the south valley because,” he gestured vaguely around. “No trees. Besides, I am swift.”

“I suppose we’ll see if that’s true soon,” Hasimi said. “I’ll find you out there,” she said, raising a fist to him.

He nodded and touched his knuckles to her with a grin. “When I win, let’s get married. You’re still my type.”

“ _If_ you win,” Hasimi said, turning and waving him off, “I’ll think about it. Don’t let me down.”

There was a burning in her hands, reaching up through her arms now. Daraz had grown strong enough to take a riding name, to kill another clan’s champion alone; the thought of going spear-to-spear with him made her blood rush. Her kin, too, were beginning to stir as her father was giving them their orders. Segren came forward to meet her, Samulgian’s reins in hand, the horse stamping at the ground with short neighs of agitation. He had slung her kit off from his shoulder, something missing.

“My bow?” she asked. Segren quirked a brow as she pulled her lamellar coat on and fastened it at the sides.

“Did the chieftan not discuss it in the ceremony? He said no bows this time, to keep the casualties low,” he said.

Hasimi looked to her father as she drew the belted sheathes of her short swords tight to her lower back. He was no longer speaking to their kin, and had already taken up his position several paces ahead. He was looking up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the still-climbing sun. For a moment, he smiled, but the sound of Clan Aydun’s war horn wiped that from his face.

She mounted Samulgian and took her spear from Segren, riding forward to sit alongside her father.

“I don’t see Ezud,” she said.

“He and the snipers are riding with the rest this time. We’re just going to end this quick and clean,” her father said, leaning back in his saddle, reaching a hand out to pat her cheek red. “You look ready.”

“I am, father.”

The Aydun horn sounded yet again. Shem and her tea table had been cleared from the field, and the shouts rose up from both clans. Hasimi took one last breath of the pristine morning air, knowing that blood and sweat would soon render it foul, intoxicating.


	2. Book I, Chapter 1

The calm of morning was crushed under hoof by the clans as they raced towards one another. The field between them shrank by lengths as their horses worked their mighty legs against the earth, tearing away tufts of soil and grass. The rain-song of rattling lamellar cuirasses blended with the thunder of horse-charge and the gale of battle-cry until they were as twin storms. And then, at last, they met.

Some were thrown from their steeds immediately, others driven off course by a threatening spear. To Hasimi’s right, one of her kin slumped forward insensible on his mount’s neck when a spear crashed against his helmet. As she charged past, she saw the beast panic for want of an escape.

The faces and voices of kin and foe melted together in the whirl and grew dark as she pressed further in. The chaos assumed the form of a foe, spears pierced the air, axes traced their arcs, swords slashed at her neck, but Hasimi saw shadows of these before their wielders had thought to strike, and with twists and sways kept clear of them. Her own spear lashed out as a rock-snake from its nest, dismounting riders, goring horses, carving a path through the Aydun.

Still, opposite her, she saw Daraz clearing away her kin with swings of his mighty axe. He was bearing down on Ezud, her father’s second, when she caught sight of him. The thick iron crescent crashed through the shaft of Ezud’s spear and into his shoulder, and though it scarcely bit through the layers of bronze and hide, Ezud’s arm went limp and he cried out as he was twisted free from his saddle.

Daraz let loose a roar and looked about, meeting her gaze and bringing his mount about to face her. When he charged, whooping with axe overhead, both clans gave way. He urged his horse on yet faster, and Hasimi could feel Samulgian tensing and twitching between her knees.

“Steady, little cousin,” she whispered, hefting her spear up into one hand. She saw a shade rush forth from Daraz’s body, flat of his blade swinging into her side and throwing her from her horse. With each strike of hoof against ground, that shade become more solid, but it turned to smoke the moment she let fly her spear, twisting her whole weight into it. Daraz barely had time to look surprised before the iron point gouged through his horse’s eye and bit into the brain. It died mid-gallop, and it fell upon its own limp legs, throwing Daraz free behind it.

All at once, the whirlwind had gone still, and Hasimi saw that their kin had stopped fighting, had drawn up into a circle all around them to look on. She heard the skittish whinnying of Samulgian as his own black eyes stared at the ruin of his own kind a few paces away. She dismounted and patted his neck.

“You are too weak, but you did well. I’m sorry that you had to be here, little cousin. I won’t ask it again.” With that, she turned him by his reins and slapped his flank, sending him to the edge of the crowd. Daraz was already back onto his feet when she faced him, grinning and holding his mighty axe at the ready.

“Remember what you said,” he shouted. “If I win—”

“I’ll consider it.” Hasimi drew forth twin short swords of bronze and held them out from her chest. Daraz frowned.

“I won’t stop you if you want to reclaim your spear,” he said. Hasimi stood where she was, silent, staring at him with her salt-red eyes.

“Then I, Daraz the Swift, challenge you.”

“I accept.”

Daraz came at her with speed and ferocity, each swing of his axe ripping the air asunder. Hasimi deftly turned about, driving the head down into the dirt with her swords, both of them smiling at one another. He attacked faster still, yet Hasimi saw the path of the blade before he’d drawn it up, before his waist and shoulders had braced. She ducked and dodged by a finger’s width, now a hair’s. With each exchange, she stole a step further into his range, until finally she was upon him. As he made to switch grips, she slashed up at his neck, forcing him to sway and stumble back.

He was grinning widely when he turned his face back to her, even as he bled lightly from the tip of his jaw.

“Maybe you’re the swift one,” he said, throwing his axe aside and drawing a longsword. Now they charged at one another and clashed with the scraping of bronze against bronze, Daraz pressing down upon her, Hasimi dancing clear of his strikes and turning his thrusts, drawing him about in an ever-shrinking circle. Again she pressed close against his side, cut the ties holding the side of his lamellar coat together and shoved him away with her shoulder.

He laughed at the sight of his loose armor, but seemed little effected. Hasimi saw him ready a sweeping slash, but the image of it came faster than his body made real, and she turned its course to the ground with a casual flick of her own short blade. She frowned.

“Stop holding back. You’re starting to insult me,” she said, arching a brow. Daraz’s eyes widened as he regained his guard.

“You really are worth fighting,” he said. He was breathing heavily, and his face glistened with sweat. He edged a half-step closer, but his next thrust came slower still, was turned away just as easily.

“Daraz,” she murmured. “Stop.”

He could not hear her, and charged, roaring as he swung his blade. Hasimi’s face clouded over as she caught the blows with her twin swords and guided them away from her.

“That’s enough,” she said, meeting his wild eyes as he pressed with all his weight and strength against her guard.

“Then you surrender?” he asked.

Hasimi threw him back and kicked him in the stomach with such force that he fell back several paces.

“No, but you should,” she said. She felt her face flush hot as Daraz gathered himself back up to his feet, covering his belly with one hand, weakly gripping his sword with the other as he staggered. “Drop your sword!” she shouted, racing at him. She swung her swords to meet his desperate blocks, each meeting of their blades sending jolts of pain through his arms, driving him back and finally onto his knees. He panted, leaning against his sword now stuck in the ground, looking at the warrior standing over him.

“There’s no point, Daraz. Surrender.”

“A son of Aydun . . . never . . .” He struggled to speak between gasps, and his arms still shook with the force of her attack. He could no longer grip his sword, and as he tried to stand, he fell onto his back. Hasimi heard footsteps from behind, Harrud’s voice growling a name, she turned to face Teygan, whose spear was at the ready.

“Brother, stop!” Daraz bellowed from the ground, seeming to freeze Teygan in place.

“You would have me watch you die, you whom I carried upon my back?” Teygan gripped his spear such that his knuckles were white, and he spoke through clenched teeth.

Hasimi looked back to see Daraz find his feet, but there was no strength left in his arms; his hands were empty and could hardly stay steady. He fixed his brother with a hard stare until he drew back to the edge of the crowd with backward steps.

“I’m sorry, Hasimi,” Daraz said. He raised his hands out in front of him and curled his fingers as best as he could—but his breath was ragged, he still hunched forward from his waist with the pain of her earlier kick. Hasimi sucked in a deep breath through her nose and strode over to him, sheathing her swords and raising her fists.

She grew less aware of the shock traveling from her wrist and up through her arms with each punch she landed on his face and body, but each fell harder upon him, bruising through the lamellar, stealing the breath from him, blackening his world with each rattle of the brain. Blood flew from his mouth, but still he would not yield. Hasimi paused for a moment to look upon the wreck of a face she had once kissed, and he took the chance to reach out for her, grabbing her arms with what little power he had left. With a growl she wrest herself free and drove her fist into his side, gasping and stepping away the moment she felt the ribs shatter.

“Daraz, I—” she tried to catch him as he fell to the side, mouth slack, eyes clinched shut. He hit the ground wheezing, unable to cry out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”

Teygan was shouting his brother’s name, there was a scuffle behind her. Hasimi gathered Daraz’s limp form into her arms, supporting his neck. The pain still wracked his body, but he managed to open his eyes and look into hers. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but he could make no sound; he could only stare.

“You stubborn fool,” Hasimi said, looking at the place where she’d struck—his chest collapsed there like a yurt with rotten stakes. “I told you to give up.”

Daraz smiled for a moment, but the light in them had gone dull.

“I’ll let you live.” Her voice was flat.

He shook his head, never taking his eyes off Hasimi’s own. He tried again to speak, knit his brows when he choked on his own breath, then settled for forming the words with his lips. “Never ride again,” he mouthed. Hasimi looked again at what she had done to him.

“No, you won’t.”

He closed his eyes and she felt the tension melt from his muscles, going slack in her arms. “Send me away.”

She paused, looking over to where Teygan was being restrained by four of his own kin, shouting ‘witch’ at her, swearing vengeance. Harrud stood next to his eldest son, watching his third in silence and stillness. Hasimi remembered a visit to the Aydun with her father many years ago, when Harrud told them about the death of his middle son—she couldn’t recall his name—and had said that such was the Rider’s way. She drew one of her swords and placed the bronze edge against his throat. His lips formed two final words.

“Too strong.”

And with that, she drew the blade across his neck, his life spilling from him. His body rattled with a last rush of desperation, but went still before long. His spirit had fled to wherever it was spirits went, leaving behind a battered shell. She wiped away the blood from her sword and rose to look around the encircling faces.

The cheers of her kin washed over her as they surged forward from the crowd, pushing aside the dazed members of Clan Aydun to surround Hasimi. Hands reached out for her, horses brayed in her ears, and even the bloodiest, most sullied faces beamed. She looked past them to where Teygan had thrown off the people holding him back, and now stared at the ground, shoulders heaving. The crowd parted to reveal her father, dismounting. He looked down at the body of Daraz at her feet, to her, back to Daraz. He finally settled for looking over the crowd.

“You fought well.” He stepped carefully around the corpse and placed a hand on her shoulder. “How do you—”

“Narik,” Harrud’s voice rumbled under the cheers as he emerged from the crowd. He had come forward on foot, his face far darker than it had been moments before, something of his size diminished. His gaze was fixed on where his son lay, and he walked with half-steps towards him, then knelt by him. A hand reached out to touch the broken face, but stopped just short. “The battle is done. Clan Aydun will not press its complaint further.”

Another cheer came up from the Riders of Shihiin, Narik nodding and extending a hand to Harrud. The Aydun chieftan took it, and rose even as he still stared at his fallen son. The two raised their arms overhead, and both clans cleared away, returning to their camps. Shem and her timid attendant rode down from short bluff where they’d sat and observed.

“—halfwit, if you weren’t my cousin’s grandson you’d never be trusted with a horse again,” the old woman mattered, smacking the youth across the back of the head. “Chieftans, your clans both fought well. I will witness this to any who ask.”

“Thank you, elder,” Harrud said. Shem was studying him closely when he turned to Hasimi.

“You fight with power and grace, my dear. Few bring any beauty to it, but you showed this old Rider something special.”  
Hasimi looked to her father, who raised his brows and flicked his eyes at Shem briefly; she bowed low. “You honor me, elder.”

“Mm. Now, Narik, your clan has carried the day, but I urge you as strongly as I can to uphold the offer you made to Clan Aydun nonetheless. They have paid a terrible price today.”

“I fully intend to, elder,” Narik said. “The village is not a long ride from here. I will lead my riders there now and finish this.”

“Good, good. Now, Harrud,” Shem said, pointing past them to Teygan, who still stood rooted to the place he’d stood when his brother fell. 

“Have pity on the boy and let him take up his brother. He has waited long enough.”

“Teygan!” Harrud barked, waving him over. Teygan ran to them, only to be grabbed by the collar of his cuirass by his father’s thick hand. “Your conduct today nearly shamed your brother and this entire clan. We will have to speak of honor soon. For now, thank the elder for letting you stand here.”

“Thank you, elder.” Teygan spoke near a whisper, bending down to hoist Daraz from the ground. His breath turned sharp as the body came up from the ground and he felt it loose in his arms. He gawped at his brother’s collapsed chest, but bit his lip. “I will . . . place him in a wagon.” He stole a glance at Hasimi; she watched him walk after the rest of his kin, careful not to shift Daraz.

“Where will you hold the funeral?” her father asked.

“Outside Yevalam. We offered him to the hawk there, it’s only right.” Harrud appeared to be looking at something in the distance for a moment. 

“Will you attend?”

“If you’ll have us, old friend.”

“Perhaps . . .” The older chieftan swallowed hard, turning to Hasimi. “Perhaps Hasimi should take a riding-name, now.”  
Hasimi’s eyes widened; before she could speak she felt her father’s firm hand upon her shoulder, and she decided to hold her tongue.

“That would be a great honor, Harrud. Are you sure?” her father said.

“My son . . . still had love for you, I think,” Harrud said, still looking at her. “And he admired your strength. He had just taking his riding-name and started his story; it would please him to have it continue through you.” His words came slow, but his voice hardly quavered.

“I agree. It will be one more show of the bonds between your clans,” Shem said.

The discussion carried on for a time without Hasimi, who though she stood near could scarcely hear their words. She looked at her hands, stained with blood, and felt nothing. Without noticing it, she had been led off towards their camp by her father, who was gently calling to her.

“Father, I . . . Sorry. My mind was—” Hasimi shook her head.

“The matter is settled. Daraz’s funeral will also be your making-day,” her father said, patting her back. Hasimi knit her brows, fighting off a frown.

“Thank you, father.”

“You don’t have to pretend, nobody else can hear us right now,” he said.

“This doesn’t feel right.”

“Because you killed him?”

“No, I—” She shook her head, whipping her hair about. “That is the Rider’s way. But I thought he would be . . .” She looked up at the sky and let out a heavy sigh. Her father took a step ahead of her unnoticed and turned to face her, their heads colliding as she caught up to him. He chuckled, rubbing his forehead.

“You really are out of it if that got you,” he said. “Hasimi, you have always been strong. At first, it was a little surprise. But then one day, my little girl was throwing my best men and now nobody in the clan wants to wrestle with you.”

“Father . . .”

“Harrud’s boy was tough, but not like that. I don’t know anybody in the valley who is. You’re just different.”

“I always thought I’d be proud when I earned a riding-name.” Her father’s face softened, and he touched her cheek with his calloused hands.

“I’m sorry, my daughter.”

As they walked back to their kin, Hasimi felt a breath upon her neck. She spun about and her eyes were drawn to foothills that, though they were well beyond the horizon, she could see clearly. Atop one of the hills, she saw a man and a woman on horseback; the woman wore a white veil that seemed to drip like blood from her face and flow over her whole body, while a mist of shifting colors seemed to rise from the man. The sight of him, even at ease on horseback, made her body tense, her hands feel for her swords. The woman turned to face her directly, and drew back her veil—Hasimi turned away at the sight, and it fled from her memory the moment she opened her eyes to the world about her.

“Hasimi?” Her father was looking at her with concern. “What did you see?”

She blinked, realized that her hands were indeed fixed about the grips of her blades, and let them go. She bade her body relax muscle by muscle.

“Father, what kinds of people are there . . . beyond our valley?”

He closed his eyes and whispered something—her mother’s name? “Too many to name, and some far greater than any who’ve ever lived here.”

Hasimi nodded, and walked past her father, leaving him trying to see what she had. He murmured something to himself that she could not make out, only that his voice was ruled by sadness.


	3. Book I, Chapter 2

As they set out southeast for the village, the Riders of both clans fell in with one another to talk, seek out familiar faces, trade jokes, cheer and congratulate each other on a battle well-fought. Harrud rode at the head of the crowd, Teygan driving the wagon that bore his brother’s body. Hasimi left Samulgian in Segren’s care and took up the mount of one of her kin who’d fallen in the battle. She rode alongside her father; as the victorious chieftan, it was his right to ride at the back and survey those whom he had led, those whom he had crushed. She resisted the urge to fidget as they spent the long journey in silence until the village came into view from behind a bluff.

“Oh, piss.” Her father shook his head, slapping his palm over his face and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I almost forgot—Segren!”

“Father?”

“Segren!” he repeated. No response. “Segren, get your half-blind ass back here!” A few of the Shihiin at the rear of the crowd noticed their chieftain’s plight and sent his call up the line. After some hollering and shifting, Segren appeared from the crowd at a canter, head tilted.

“Yes, chieftain?”

“I can’t believe this slipped my mind, ride back to camp and fetch Hamayedi. He shouldn’t miss his sister’s making-day.”  
Segren tried in vain to stifle a laugh. “Of course. It will be a few hours’ ride, though.”

“That’s fine. Once you have him, come straight to Yevalam.” Her father nodded, but waved Segren back just before he’d turned away. “And don’t tell him I almost forgot.”

“The hero of the uprising, afraid to upset his little boy?” The light in his one eye danced. “Makes me glad I never had children myself.” He rode off north at a brisk trot, man and horse shrinking into the distance, becoming one, then disappearing.

“Do you think you’ll make him your second again?” Hasimi asked as they resumed their ride.

“What?”

“Now that Ezud’s been run through the shoulder like that. He can’t lead raids like that.”

“He’ll heal. And in the first place, Segren’s lost an eye, and he’s eleven years older than me. He’s no more fit than Ezud.”

“So you’re keeping him?” Hasimi asked.

“What, not confident in him?” her father asked, arching a brow.

“I think he’s lost his edge.”

“Maybe,” her father said. “Actually, now that you bring it up, I was considering giving someone new a try.”  
Hasimi took a moment to understand why he was smiling at her.

“Me? I’m only seventeen, that’s—”

“Not important. I was barely any older when I led the uprising, and you’re stronger than I was then. The clan knows you for a warrior, and now you’ll have a riding-name for every Rider to know you.”  
Hasimi sucked in her lower lip for a moment. “People will say that it’s because I’m your daughter.”

“If they do, you’ll prove them wrong. Besides, even Harrud has his older boy for a second.” He pat her shoulder. “It’s a responsibility, and I won’t ask you to take it if you don’t want it. Think on it, and give me your answer when you’re ready.”

Hasimi said nothing. The village was becoming clearer now, farms and the occasional group of wooden buildings stuck into the ground, not a yurt in sight. There were dirt paths just wide enough for two horses winding between the fields, all twisting together into a knot of buildings and people the Mikshan called a ‘market.’ Smoke rose from a few of the buildings, and people were leading cows and sheep about, working metal or wood, carrying bundles, talking to one another. Hasimi was looking closely enough that she hadn’t noticed her father falling behind a few paces.

His horse was motionless, and he his hands were tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing around the rough leather reins.

“I’m proud of you, you know. Whatever you choose, I’m proud of you,” he said, not looking up.

“Thank you, father,” Hasimi said.

“And I know I don’t have to worry about you, but I still do.”

“What do you mean?”

He took in a deep breath. “What do I mean? I wonder.” He stretched out and straightened his back, looking over his shoulder in the direction Segren had ridden. “Maybe it’s just a father thing. I worry about your brother, too.”

Hasimi laughed. “That, I understand. He’s . . .”  
  
“Different,” her father said, nodding.

“A bit weak.”

“Gentle, maybe? Maybe he is just . . . weak.” The last word was scarcely audible, and he twisted up his face as though it tasted wrong.

“When was the last time he picked up a bow?” Hasimi asked.

“Good question,” her father said, flashing a yellow-toothed grin. It slackened quickly. “The valley isn’t right for someone like him. I don’t think the wider plains are any better for him, the way Riders are. He’d have to change everything about himself to fit.”

“You taught me that Riders have to be adaptable,” Hasimi said, shrugging. “He’ll adapt. I’ll help him.”

“I don’t doubt you could, but are you even fit to stay here?” Her father read her and waved a hand in the air. “No, I didn’t mean—see here, now,” He paused with mouth open, and covered his face again. A long, slow breath escaped him and he took a moment to gather himself.

“All I mean to say is, if all this,” he said, spreading his arms out to span across the fields behind him, “is too small for you, you don’t have to pretend—oh, what now?” His expression grew weary, and Hasimi heard two voices arguing, drawing closer. Harrud rode towards them, Teygan running after him on foot. The two were red in the face.

“But father, unless—”

“You will say nothing more! We shall discuss it a later time, you fool,” Harrud spat. “Narik!”

“What is it, old friend?”

“The village is near. You may send along my kin if you must, but I insist that I be allowed to witness this punishment.”  
Hasimi felt a chill as her father’s body stiffened.

“You insist?”

The larger chieftan frowned. “I do.”

Even though her smiled, her father’s muscles tugged against themselves. A shadow moved forth from him to strike out at the Aydun chieftan, but when she blinked it away, he stood stock still.

“What, do you not trust me to hand out punishment? I know how to deal with Mikshan.”

“It is not a question of trust. I must see the matter through,” Harrud said.

“Oh. Then you have nothing to worry about, you already have seen it through. You saw it through to a battle between two friendly clans. A battle you lost.”

“That may be so, but—”

“You surrendered, in the sight of the spirits and the old lady. I wouldn’t press it any further if I were you; at this rate you’ll lose another son.”

Narik’s voice was frost-rimed, and stole the color from Harrud’s face. Teygan gawped in horror before grimacing and stepping forward.

“You bastard!”

Hasimi readied to dismount, watched the shade of his intent stretch out from his body, but it shook itself to pieces.

“Teygan, remove yourself from my sight now!” Harrud roared, rooting his son where he stood. “My eldest son’s tongue and temper have wrought far more harm to this clan’s pride than any spear today.”

Teygan grit his teeth, but was unwilling to defy his father, and stepped back, storming off to the head of the crowd. Hasimi saw a handful of her kin and the Aydun looking back to observe the argument, and glared until they turned away.

“Peace, old friend,” Narik said, letting the tension drain from him as he raised both hands. “It is my fault for losing my patience. I do not mean to have you go without some satisfaction. Give me your three criminals and I’ll take them into the village.”

“They must be punished in my lands, Shihiin, that is not—”

“They will be. But they should also see what they brought on the people who helped them.”  
Harrud turned up his chin, his thick silver brows rising almost imperceptibly.

“. . . Very well, then. Take the murderers, and I will lead my people ahead to Yevalam.” He rode off, barking orders to some of his kin in the crowd as he passed, stirring up a small commotion. While they were alone, Hasimi heard her father let out a heavy sigh.

“Father?”

“I’m tired.”

“I have not seen you so angry before. I’m surprised at—”

“I shouldn’t have said that about his son.”

“No, I admire you for it,” Hasimi said. “He lost the battle and was overstepping his rights as the defeated. You had to show him your strength.”

Her father pat the back of his horse’s neck. “That’s all most of us understand, isn’t it.”

Before long, three of the Aydun and three of the Shihiin approached them, the former dragging captives bound by heavy hempen cords. It was Hasimi’s first time seeing the men the battle had been about; they looked like any of the clan-folk who didn’t ride, sturdy with wind-worn skin, their legs unusually straight, their feet masses of callous. Whatever character their faces may have spoken to was hidden under the bruises and welts that a thorough beating had left them with.

“Will they even be able to see what’s happening?” her father asked. “Their eyes are near swollen shut.”

“It is enough that they hear it, then,” Harrud said. “So long as they understand that what is happening is their fault. You have my gratitude for this, Narik.” The hulking chieftain gathered his people from the mingled crowd and led them off as a separate body to Yevalam while Narik called his kin to him and led them the rest of the way into the village, the three criminals dragged along the ground by the ropes that bound them.

They crossed onto one of the dirt roads leading into the village’s heart, some of the farmers at the outskirts of the village rising to watch them pass. Others kept themselves busy with their work or turned their backs, some dove down to hide amid the grasses or shouted in despair.

They found an old man speaking to the people in front of the one stone building in the whole of the village, a shrine that had once been dedicated to a Mikshan god. The man was stooped, a ragged white beard forking out from his pointed chin, his face worn, eyes sunken. He drew his thin lips tight together at the sight of them, and slowly limped through the crowd to bow deeply before Narik.

“Celgu, hard to believe you’re still around,” Narik said, nodding at the old man.

“Eighty-nine years is too long, I think, but the gods have not seen fit to take me back yet,” Celgu replied, voice dry as sand. “What brings the chieftain to our village?”

The old man’s eyes flashed momentarily as the three Aydun captives were drawn up before him at Narik’s signal. Two of them huddled low to the ground, wordless, staring into the dirt, but the third lifted his head to look at Celgu, his lips quivering, water staining his cheeks.

“P-priest,” he muttered. Celgu looked unmoved by the pathetic whimper.

“These are the refugees from Aydun who lived among us,” he said. “So the matter is settled?”

“Almost,” Narik said. “Ring the shrine bell, the whole village needs to be here.”

Celgu disappeared inside the crumbling stone box and did as he was asked, the ancient iron bell’s dull ring stretching out across the fields. One by one, the people left their fields, their forges, their saws, and came to stand in the marketplace, shoulder to shoulder with the horses of the Riders. There were just as many excited, curious murmurs and fingers pointing at the battered Aydun men as there were nervous whispers and trembling bodies.

“Well, chieftain,” Celgu said, stepping aside from his place on the short steps of the shrine and offering it to Narik. “The village is here.”

Hasimi felt her father’s hand firm upon her shoulder, lingering as he took a half-step, stopped short, then continued up the steps and faced the gathering.

“These men,” he said, pointing to the criminals in the center of the crowd, “are thieves and murderers from Aydun lands. They escaped here and lived among you as farmhands and workers for a time, but their chieftain came here to take them back home and punish them by the old laws.”

He looked around the crowd; Hasimi could not make sense of the expression that passed over him for just a moment. “The family they lived with were told by the Riders of Aydun just who these men are, but the family tried to fight them off, and the Aydun came back with every Rider they have, took these men by force. Your priest here came to me to beg my help, and today we defeated the Aydun in battle.”

A cheer went up from many in the crowd. Hasimi spotted a young woman pushing her way forward; unusually tall, with long black braids, dark skin, narrow eyes, a broad, flat nose. The line of her sight was easy to trace to the one Aydun man with the courage to look up and face what was to come. Her face was the very mask of pity; an older man and woman laid hands upon her shoulders and tried to pull her away, while a younger man who resembled her well stood close behind, glaring.

Hasimi saw her father taking the same things in, but he winced as though bitten by something and turned away to face another part of the crowd.

“The village is safe, but there’s still a debt to settle,” he said. “This family . . . still broke the old laws by refusing the words of a Rider.”

Celgu knit his brows and bowed his head low. “Forgive me, chieftain, but the family could not know if the Aydun were telling the truth,” he said.

“It is not their place to question them. Clan Shihiin protects you, so you are under my law. The Aydun have always been our allies, and if you had brought this to me without fighting back, there wouldn’t have been a battle over it,” Narik said. The priest’s eyes dimmed.

“Broke the old laws . . . what does that mean?” one of the villagers in the crowd asked.

“It means they will be hanged,” Hasimi said. “Just as your people did to ours when we were your slaves.”  
Again, a hum rose up from the crowd, this one more fearful. Some of the villagers stepped away from the Riders nearest them, or eyed their spears. Celgu looked to Narik with pleading eyes, but the chieftain shook his head.

“Then I must confess,” he said, “They have already fled. When I told them you would be merciful, they didn’t believe me. I suppose they were right not to.”

Hasimi’s blood ran hot, and she clenched a fist, but her father came down from the steps towards him.  
“No, I don’t think so. The nearest Mikshan village is a quarter day’s ride from here; for a farm family that’s a long trip to make on two day’s notice. And then what? They’d be the strangers in town, and the first people I asked would give them up to me. No, they’re very close.” With that, he turned to the dark-haired beauty who had not once looked away from the swollen face of the Aydun prisoner. “Bring them here,”

Celgu seemed to choke on his own breath, and he stumbled onto his knees in front of Narik as a few of the Riders grabbed the girl, her brother, and her parents and brought them into the center of the gathering.

“Chieftain, I beg you, let my head satisfy you. The fault lies with me for not better instructing my people about the proper respect for the Riders of Aydun. The family should not suffer for my foolishness.”

Something in Narik’s face faltered, and his hand twitched, raised slightly towards the priest. He took in a deep breath and beckoned the riders to bring the family closer to him. The parents cried incoherent pleas while the son fired arrow after arrow of obscenities at them until one of the Riders reached down and grabbed the back of his tunic.

“Fucking stupid boy, shut your mouth,” he said, yanking the youth backwards with such force that he fell flat on his back.

“Please, mercy on our children, they don’t know any better,” the mother wailed, rushing to the boy’s side.   
The father was kissing the hand of the Rider holding him.

“My daughter, she was in love, you know? Don’t punish them for that. Just take me instead.”

The daughter remained silent. She walked in time with the horse of her captor, who had no need to keep hands upon her or nudge her with his spear. She kept her gaze fixed to the Aydun man who looked at her as though she were one of the goddesses the Mikshan were always going on about. She took long steps towards him and knelt before him, reaching out to touch his battered face, wiping away his tears, whispering to him, kissing his forehead and cheeks.

The weeping made Hasimi’s stomach turn, and she wondered how long her father would let it go on. He watched the scene through half-closed eyes for a long moment, then took a step towards them.

“You know why you’ve been brought out here, so let’s not make this any harder than it has to be. You have interfered with the justice of an ally; these men you took in? They are thieves and murderers.”

“We did not know—” the father began.

Narik shook his head. “You heard what I’ve said about that already.”

The parents looked at each other with panic, trying to muster something to say until the daughter stood and walked past Narik, towards Hasimi. Up close, Hasimi had to look up to meet the young woman’s eyes.

“I knew what these men did in their lands,” she said. “Arsur, he told me.” Her voice was soft, but carried so that all could hear. Arsur, the man she’d knelt before, called out to her to stop.

“Then you had even less reason to protect them,” Hasimi said. The young woman closed her eyes and smiled.

“No, because I know that they regret what they’ve done, they wanted to start over, here. That is worth protecting,” she said. 

“You know, you’re not even wrong.” Hasimi’s father said, walking towards them. “But when your people ruled the land, they built the law around what they thought was important. Life and death were given out by those sorts of whims. Riders, we value different things, and the old laws show that. Now that we’re the ones ruling the land, well.” He shrugged. “I stopped trying to break the cycle a long time ago.”

The words fell strange in Hasimi’s ear, and she could see strange looks coming over the faces of her kin, their uneasy shifting in their saddles. The farmer girl, for her part, nodded slowly.

“I understand. Then treat me the way you would treat an enemy. I know why I fought those men.”  
Narik studied her, looked at his daughter.

“Two kinds of strength, is it? The spirits are playing a strange game today. I’ll do as you ask.”

The young man was still snarling at them, trying to get away from his captors but being knocked about more and more for his troubles. The parents, after recovering from their surprise at their daughter’s boldness, returned to begging on behalf of their children. Their voices quavered more and more as Riders threw rope up over the thickest branch of a gnarled old tree next to the shrine, tied up nooses, tugged to test them, placed stones dislodged from the crumbling shrine under them. The farmers bucked and twisted and dropped their weight against those pulling them up towards their destination, the parents reaching out for their children in turn. The crowd looked on, horrified, immobile as nooses were looped over necks.

“I hope the wolf-god gnaws on your horsefucking souls forever!” the son shouted, spitting in the face of the Rider in front of him, who responded by kicking the stone out from under the youth’s feet. The mother shrieked and fainted at the sight of her son wriggling the last bits of life out of his body, the father shutting his eyes tightly. Arsur alone of his kin looked on. Hasimi, her father, and the daughter all stood together watching as the other two stones were removed, the otherwise unflinching beauty shedding silent tears.

“Mama, papa?” A small voice called. At that, the young woman’s body rattled like a hard-struck spear shaft; Hasimi could see she was trying not to look in its direction, where stood a boy no more than five or six, wandering forward from the crowd towards the hanging bodies. Celgu gasped and rushed towards the boy, shielding his eyes from the sight and holding him close.

“Looks like one more, chieftain,” one of the executioners said, advancing on Celgu. “Step aside, priest.”  
Narik turned to the young woman, and put his hand upon her head. He looked at her in a way Hasimi had not seen herself since she was a little girl.

“Stop,” he shouted to the Rider now looming over Celgu. “Just let him live.”

“Is that wise, chieftain?” the Rider asked, cocking his head at the older son. “What if the little one ends up like his brother did? He will probably come for your head, assuming he lives that long without his family.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad,” Narik said, walking over to Celgu and the boy, who’d already seen enough to set him crying. “Make sure that the village takes care of him. I will do what I can to help him.”

The priest nodded, seemingly in a daze, and went to gather the child up into his arms. Hasimi couldn’t help but notice that the horror had faded from the faces of most of the villagers, who now stood fixed on the daughter, waiting for her punishment.

When the bodies of the parents had gone just as still and silent as their son’s, Narik reached behind his back and drew one of his short swords and beckoned the young woman to him.

“How will it happen, with the sword?” she asked.

“Yes, first we kneel together,” Narik said, descending to one knee as she gathered up her frock, tucking it under her shins as she joined him. “This is so that we are both close to the earth spirits.”

“I understand.”

“Good, now, I will sit on your left, and the sword will be in my left hand, because the left side of the body is connected to the spirit realm.”

“I understand,” the young woman’s voice was going quiet. Hasimi shifted her weight from foot to foot, something tingling in her legs and spine with the feel of danger.

“It’s going to go up under your ribs, and into your heart. It should be quick.”

“I understand.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“. . . I’m sorry, my child.”

He put a hand to the back of her head, drew her to him, and—Hasimi saw the blade in the young woman’s hands, plunging into her father’s heart, blood trickling from his lips, from his eyes, from every pore even as he smiled. The young woman’s face melted away to that of the white-veiled woman she had seen before.

“Father!” she shouted, reaching out for him—but when she blinked, she realized the farm girl was run through, body slack against her father who now drew back his sword and stood up, letting her fall to the ground.

The muffled crying of the boy was the only sound in the entire world as her father stood alone in a sea of unmoving faces, watching the blood drip from his blade. For an instant, it was as though she saw through his eyes, the body of the young woman . . . with her face.


	4. The Hasimiad; Book I, Chapter 3

The bodies were cleared from the market and taken into the decrepit shrine for the priest to tend to. No sooner had he retreated into its darkness than many of the villagers came forward with petitions for their Rider masters; there were bandits and beasts troubling the village, and they looked to Narik Shihiin to defend them.

Hasimi’s stomach turned at the way they groveled with their eyes fixed to the ground, never daring to look at her father directly. She rolled her eyes as one man blubbered about his wheat being stolen; he knew who was to blame, where these people lived, but could not put an end to it himself.

But more than all this, the strange looks her own kin were casting at her father in the wake of the strange execution scraped away at her patience. She fidgeted, looking southeast. Her father held out a hand to silence the villager who was speaking to him and beckoned Hasimi closer.

“You don’t have to sit here while I take care of this,” he said soft enough that only she could hear.

“I’ll wait for you outside the village,” Hasimi said. “Riders of Shihiin, head for Yevalam. We will meet you there before long."

Her kin slowly realized their chieftain’s daughter was addressing them, but not all of them ceased their whispering, and few of them made for the southeast road.

“Now!” she hollered loudly as she could. Each Rider straightened in their saddle and fell silent, gathering up into one body and riding past she and her father with wary expressions. Ezud stopped near them for a moment.

“Are you sure you don’t need a few of us to stay behind?” he asked.

“We don’t need protection from these villagers. Just make sure everyone assists the Aydun with their funeral preparations,” Hasimi said, unblinking. He paused, then rode off with a shrug. The villagers watched in awe as the Riders cleared away, and Celgu looked as though a boulder had been lifted from his chest, setting the now-orphaned boy down for the first time since he’d wandered upon his family’s end. Hasimi shared his relief when her kin had gone.

“How like a second,” her father said, smirking. He nodded to the villager at his feet to let him know he could speak again, and Hasimi took her horse’s reins and led him out of the village with short, slow steps.

She took him just off the road and lay in the grass next to him, watching small wisps of cloud form and disappear in the near-empty sky, the sun edging ever closer to the peak of its daily climb. The winds, too gentle now to be heard, nevertheless brushed her face with the blades of grass; she focused on these sensations and drove all other thought from her mind.

She had lost track of time when she heard hoofbeats faint through the earth, and sat up to see her father riding towards her. Behind him, a few villagers looked in his direction as if to make sure he was truly leaving, but most had returned to their business.

“I kept you waiting a long time,” her father said. “I figured I should hear them out while we were already here, but this village has had a rough season of it.”

“Perhaps if the Mikshan learned to fight for themselves, they would not have to trouble us,” Hasimi said.

“The Mikshan used to be mighty, and they used that strength to enslave our people. We took their weapons and made them meek, and they probably hate us now than they did when they owned us,” her father said. “If they could fight again, I’m sure the first thing they’d do is come after us.”

“And we’d beat them again, just like you did.”

“Making them even weaker, and less able to care for themselves.”

Hasimi remounted and fell into step with her father. “So we were their slaves, and now we have to take care of them?”

Her father’s laugh was a bitter one. “That’s how most of the chieftains feel. You know, there are some places in the grasslands east of the valley where they killed off all their Mikshan after the empire fell. They wanted revenge, but what they got is starvation and constant fighting. We didn’t get revenge, but you know what we got?” He reached into one of his saddlebags and rummaged around until he drew out something small wrapped in line; it was a ball of yellow cheese. “This. And this,” he said, yanking a thumb back over his shoulder to his bow. “Maybe it’s not perfect, but we protect the Mikshan, and they provide for us.”

“Still, I think you . . . No, it is not my place.”

“If it’s anyone’s place, it’s yours. What did you want to say?”

“Some of the things you said, father, they . . . Our kin did not care for them.”

“What did you think?”

“I trust you, father, but I don’t understand why you of all people are so soft with them.”

“Because of my past?”

“More than that. All my life, I’ve heard stories about you, and you’ve always been what a Rider should be. But these people are nothing like that. The way they live, the way they talk, and think . . . Their homes are stuck in one place, they can’t ride or shoot or handle a spear. They’re just like babies, or animals.”

“Who were able to conquer our people and rule us for sixty years,” her father said. “Maybe you don’t like them, but you could at least respect them. When was the last time a Rider built a wall ten times the height of a man?” her father asked.

Hasimi paused—she could not recall the last time a Rider built a wall of any height.

“The Mikshan used to have walls that high around five cities. Or when was the last time a Rider made a really fine sword, the kind that stays true after scores of battles?” He pointed to her lower back. “Those swords I gave you were taken off a Mikshan commander and made by a Mikshan smith.”

“But they trade the freedom of the plains to do so. You’ve told me yourself, they would hide behind their walls in battle and hope to wait out their enemy.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“That they are cowards, and they need to build all these things because they are weak.”

“Hm. I used to think that way, too,” her father said.

“And now?”

“Who knows? Even if I said I wanted to be more like the Mikshan, could I actually be? I’m already getting old and I’ve spent my whole life as a Rider, there’s no changing my nature once you get to my age.” He chuckled, shaking his head as though he was amazed at his own foolishness.

A long silence passed. Hasimi tried to give words to the knot in her chest, but everything felt hollow in her mouth.

“I am not deaf to what people say about me these days,” her father said, eventually. “Segren tells me that some of our kin think it’s time I give it up and let someone younger be chieftain. It’s true that I am losing my edge as I get older.”

“You are still strong, father,” she said, surprised by her own forcefulness. “You’re the best person to lead our clan.”

“I agree!” he said, showing a toothy grin. “With all my heart! But I find I wake up every day hating it more and more. Every pointless battle, every show of force to hold things together. I don’t know anymore.”

Another silence, heavier this time. She could see clear as day in front of her eyes those she had crippled or slain in the six years she had been fighting, standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the road a short distance ahead of her. Yet behind them, countless ranks deep were others disfigured, carved, pierced, shot-through, crushed, burnt, all of them eyeless and reaching out not for her, but for him.

“I think about leaving it all behind.” Her father’s voice wiped away the macabre vision. “I’ve hardly ever spent any of my spoils from the uprising. You, your brother and I could just take it and go. Anywhere you want.”

“I am a Rider, father, just like you are. Don’t say all these strange things for my sake, it’s not like you.” She felt her face burn and her throat tighten, but she restrained her tongue.

“You’re probably right,” he said, sighing. “Don’t mind me, I’m just thinking out loud. Happens when you get old.” He said no more, and Hasimi turned her attention to the evidence of her kin’s earlier passage down the road, the many overlapping hoof prints in the dirt, the spot where one of her kin had emptied his stomach after too much drinking in celebration, the scraps of bread and meat by the side of the ride.

“I wish your mother were here,” she heard her father say, but when she turned to him, he said no more. In all of the solitude, only one wagon, pulled by a yak and driven by a silent old lady, rolled past them in the other direction. Then, all at once, Hasimi felt as though someone had driven a hot iron into her brain.

A man a half-and-a-half shorter than her father walked towards them, a dark green robe hanging loose from his almost skeletal body. The skin of his neck and hands was pale as the moon, but she could see none of his face, covered as it was by a mask of faintly blue metal that seemed to blend into the flesh on the back of his bald head. The mask was shaped exactly like a man’s face, but where the eyes should have peered through from beneath, there were holes opening onto an impenetrable black. He gripped a staff as tall as he was, a thick mass of rough black iron but for five silver rings that passed through a hole at the head of it, jangling against one another with every step.

“U-Lim, a pleasure to see you again,” her father shouted, picking up pace to meet him. Hasimi struggled to follow, her stomach cramping, her head going light as she looked at the man. She tried to bend her sight towards a shade of his next movement, but he suddenly disappeared. Even though she could no longer see him, she knew he was stood right in front of her, her father talking to him normally. She grunted and looked away to the ground as she urged her mount on.

Her father dismounted, bowed, and offered his horse to the stranger, who waved his free hand.

“You know I prefer to walk.”

“Even so, I keep hoping one day you’ll get some sense,” her father said, laughing heartily and patting the man on the shoulder. The hand was brushed away as quickly as it came, and the stranger prodded her father’s forehead with his staff.

“I have sense enough, I think. But you might benefit from some more, if Harrud was speaking honestly.”

Her father laughed and backed away, raising his hands in supplication. “I take it you met him on the road earlier?”

“Yes, your people had fallen in with his. He told me a bit of this morning’s battle. You should know him better than to say what you did during the tea ceremony. He will carry that insult for a while.” U-Lim’s sigh seemed to come from all around. “You are still as much a fool as when you were her age,” he said, pointing to Hasimi.

Her father turned to her and cocked his head in U-Lim’s direction, waiting for her. She stayed mounted and folded her arms over her chest.

“Shaman,” she said. “Did my mother send you?”

“She did not,” U-Lim said. “No, I have business of my own that brings me here. Does that free you from showing basic respect? Perhaps I should remove you from your horse myself?”

“Sorry, you know my daughter is . . .”

“Rough, and uncouth. Far more of her father than her mother, I think,” U-Lim said, walking over to Hasimi and stroking her horse’s muzzle. She felt the horse’s body slacken beneath her, and she let out a yelp as she felt herself falling, only for the beast to roust and steady himself as U-Lim lifted a hand. “Perhaps that suits her best.”

“You talk about respect plenty for someone who insults a chieftain.”

“Insult? Do I ever insult you, Narik?” U-Lim asked.

“Only when I need it, shaman,” her father said.

“A good answer. Granted you need it more than most, being an idiot. Well, in any case,” he said, stepping back a few paces, “You could at least step down here so I can get a real look at you, see how strong you’ve gotten. I heard that Daraz was your handiwork,” the shaman said.

Hasimi considered the shaman for a moment—not his unmoving mask of a face, but the rest of his body. Every part of him was loose and relaxed such that he might as well have been sleeping. Yet, the moment she dismounted, he was stood right before her, peering up at her with his lightless eye-holes much the same as he had at her father. He hefted his staff and prodded at her legs, at her sides, her arms, making inscrutable grunts here and there. By the time he had reached her back, she’d lost her patience and spun about to grab the staff from his hands, only to find him standing a pace away.

“Well, your body has certainly grown stronger, but your mind appears to be lagging behind. A shame.”  
Hasimi growled and threw a punch aimed straight for the shaman’s face, not caring if it really was solid metal. She focused on him with all her will, but he slipped from her sight instantly, and appeared behind her, tapping her shoulder lightly.

“I should have expected that,” she said, sighing.

“I wonder why you even try, if you’re never going to change your approach,” U-Lim said. “Now, Narik, enough about your favorite child, what of mine? How is Hamayedi? I trust you’ve not interfered with the studies I’ve set before him?”

“I haven’t, though I have to admit he uses it as an excuse to avoid riding and training more than I’d like,” her father said, sighing.

“Let him cultivate a strong, disciplined mind. If he has that then when he has need of horse or bow, he will not fail to learn those things,” U-Lim said.

“I hope you’re right, shaman.”

“Of course I am. If it will assure you, I will remind the boy of the importance of being well-rounded when he joins us.”

“Joins us?”

“I understand that Daraz’s funeral is also to be Hasimi’s making-day. I cannot imagine you would let the boy miss such an event. Harrud has already asked me to perform the last rites for his boy. Perhaps I should also preside over the naming?”

“Wait just a mo—” Hasimi began.

“We would be honored, shaman. Thank you,” her father cut in.

“Good, now that that’s settled, shall we be on our way again?” U-Lim asked. In deference to U-Lim, Narik chose to walk with his horse, leaving Hasimi to follow suit. She thought she could feel U-Lim studying her, but given that he walked a short distance ahead of her and never turned, she could not understand why. She tried her best to simply not think about it and keep her feet moving.

“So, shaman, how . . .”

“You have already begun, Narik, there is no point in ceasing now like some idiot-child.”

“How is Idri? Is she well?”

The shaman let out a hearty guffaw and smote the ground with the foot of his staff. “It is a rare Rider who worries for another’s welfare, but to worry about HER of all people! Hah! Yes, my master is well. Always you and her children are in her thoughts.”

Hasimi took the hint when he said no more on the matter, and she saw that her father did the same.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“I do not presume to speak for her, but I suspect she would understand if you were to take a wife, Narik.”

“I’m sure she would.”

“But she is your only.”

“She is.”

U-Lim sighed. “Not as a shaman, but from one man to another, I feel for you.”

“Well, you’re here and we’ve got a long trip ahead of us,” Hasimi said, louder than she needed to. “Do you have any travel stories, shaman?”

Her father blanched. “Hasimi, don’t—”

“No, Narik, I must admit I’m surprised. Intrigued, even,” U-Lim said. “I thought you did not care for my stories. You would always leave your father and brother alone to listen to them. Perhaps your mind is beginning to roam beyond this valley?”

“I didn’t ask for you to pry into my head,” she said, “Just if you had any stories. If you’re going to babble at me—”

“As it happens, impatient child,” U-Lim said, “I have this past season spent much time among the Edrikal who live far to the south of here.”

“I’ve never heard of that clan,” Hasimi said.

“Your father spent some time in their lands when he was young, as it happens. He never told you about them?” U-Lim asked, sounding incredulous.

“I was planning to get around to it,” her father said. “They’re not one clan, they’re many clans of great birds, bigger than any man.” He stretched an arm up and out.

“Birds?” Hasimi arched a brow.

“Yes, birds that can speak, can think as you or I do, who make music and have laws and religion,” U-Lim said. “There are some among them who are clever builders, and they make great nests that sit high up on the cliffs or in tall trees. Though they sleep in their nests, they spend their waking hours soaring over the mountains and forests, and dive for fish in the ocean that lies at the southern edge of their nation.”

The more he spoke, the more the world around Hasimi faded away, rolling plains yielding to mountains that pierced clouds and scratched the very roof of the sky. Though she had never seen these nests in her life, and only knew ‘ocean’ as a word, she could see them as vividly as though she was standing before them that very moment. Enormous birds, their wings every color she could imagine and many she never had, spread out against the sun and carried them towards an endless, shifting field of blue. The smell of salt came to her on a sudden wind, and she could hear the birds talking amongst themselves, singing. Some dove into the water and returned with fish unlike those she’d seen in any river, and feasted as they surveyed their domain. The same sense of freedom she felt on the back of a galloping horse settled in her heart, and she rode on with her eyes closed, letting the shaman weave his tale.

He finished his account and the vision dropped away to reveal the city of Yevalam appearing in the distance. Hasimi could still count the number of times she had actually seen the city, and the number of times she’d entered it would not take both hands, but it was one of the places most firmly etched in her memory.

The high walls of stone that had imprisoned her father in his childhood still stood around most of the city, but with gaping wounds of crumbled stone in places, and the steady growth of mosses elsewhere. Some of the missing stones could be found piled around the foot of the wall where they, along with rotten, burnt, splintered pieces of wood made shelters that had been thrown up hastily. The northwestern entrance to the city had only one half of the gate still standing, the other having been torn down by the first time she’d visited. The road turned from hard-packed earth to stinking muck the closer they drew to the city, and every old stone building she could see inside through the portal was covered in smaller shacks and stalls built in and around them.

Near and past the gateway, she saw Riders of other clans, though she could not tell one clan from another but those that were from outside the valley. Two of the famously tall women of Clan Darasiin stood passing a wine jug back and forth, chugging and hollering at timid young Mikshan men that walked by. A short, broad-chested man scratched at his wheat-colored beard as he sized up horses for sale; the intricate scarring across his forehead gave him away for the northeastern Clan Bogosim, who were rumored to be cannibals. She saw countless other strange Riders as they wandered down the partially-cobbled main street of Yevalam, but what she did not see were the Shihiin or the Aydun.

“They are all at the Old Shrine Hill preparing the funeral, I suspect,” U-Lim said. Hasimi spun about to glare at him for reading her mind, but saw that he was addressing her father.

“Right. Well then, I should help—”

“I would speak with you first, Narik,” the shaman said. “Harrud, as well. I have already spoken to every other chieftain that matters.”

“I . . . I see. Can Hasimi—”

“Is she a chieftain? No.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Wait, don’t just let him order you around, father!” Hasimi hissed.

“It’s not—just wait here for Segren and your brother, all right? He’ll be bored after the ride, so take him somewhere,” her father said, rummaging in his saddle bag, fishing out a few of the copper and silver coins the Mikshan so prized, and putting them in a small hide bag for her.

“But—fine. Fine.”

Her father walked away with U-Lim, but glanced back over his shoulder at her for a long moment. When they had been swallowed by the crowd, Hasimi groaned and led her horse back to the gate, tying it up to a weather-worn old post. With some of the coins her father left her, she bought a few pieces of blood sausage from a nearby stand and took bites out of one while she waited, watching the people go by. Occasionally people would look too closely at her eyes, and she could see the fear wash over them. If they were Mikshan, they’d turn away and hurry past her. If they were Riders, they glared, muttered something under their breaths, maybe spat at her feet. She kept her hands close by her waist, occasionally stroking the handles of her short swords.

She saw Segren’s white hair first, then the young face peering out from behind him, looking all over the city with wide, pale-red eyes. She waved them over, and Segren came forward at a brisk trot.

“Hope we didn’t keep you waiting long,” the aging man said.

“It’s nothing.” Hasimi smirked as she saw her little brother shifting about awkwardly, trying to dismount. “Hamayedi, do you still need big sister to help you off the horse?” She offered a hand, but the boy managed to slide off easily enough, taking a nervous step away from the horse.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Thanks for bringing me, Segren.”

“Of course. Your father deserves to have both his children with him for such a big event. Speaking of, where is everyone?” Segren asked.

“Both clans are on Old Shrine Hill getting ready for the funeral, but father went with U-Lim to talk about something.”

“U-Lim is here?” old man and young boy alike asked, the former hesitant, the latter excited.

“Ah, well, I’ll join the rest of our kin for now. What will you two do?” Segren asked.

“Can we see U-Lim?” Hamayedi asked, face beaming.

“Sorry, he said he needed to talk to father alone,” Hasimi said, bending down to his height. “But we’ve got time before we need to join the others, so I’ll take you anywhere in the city you want to go.”

“Anywhere?” Her brother’s young face went serious as death as he thought it over. Hasimi quietly acknowledged Segren as he rode off, but noticed that the strange looks from passersby had worsened. While she felt little enough before, the looks directed at her little brother made blood hot, and she took him by the hand.

“Let’s walk while you think.”

“Ah, well, I know where I want to go.”

“Okay, then we’ll just ask—”

“I know how to get there, don’t worry!” he said. She couldn’t help but laugh at his vehemence.

“Lead on,” she said. Though she let him blaze the trail through the streets, she never let go of his hand for an instant. Every distrusting look at Hamayedi’s eyes, she returned with the heat of her own. As they left the main street of the city and the crowds thinned, she studied their surroundings to see if she could remember where they were, or what he wanted to do. He finally slowed down as they came in sight of a stretch of street where all the stones had been ripped away, the earth had been turned over, and sickly-looking barley grasses were trying to grow.

She let go and watched him walk ahead of her into thicker and thicker stands, looking at each stalk with the same care she showed her weapons, and it gave her pause. He stopped when he noticed that she had fallen far behind.

“Sister?”

“I’m here, brother, don’t worry.”

No sooner did she say that then four children ran out from the thickest growths of barley, shouting at Hamayedi in Mikshan. Before she could take a step, their hands were upon him, and he disappeared into the tall grass. Amid their shouts, she heard some of the only Mikshan she knew: “Red eyes! Red eyes!”


	5. Book I, Chapter 5

Unable to see the children amid grasses that loomed over them, Hasimi gave chase to the sound of their shouts and the rustling of the grass. She could make out her brother’s voice, forming responses in Mikshan that she couldn’t understand, but something struck her as she gained ground on them; the voices calmed down quickly, and their owners seemed to be slowing down.

Indeed, they were walking casually with Hamayedi when she trampled down the last barley between them, and one of the children—a girl a bit shorter than her brother—let out a half-surprised, half-giddy yelp at her appearance. The other three, all boys, gave her strange looks. One boy with a ruddy complexion and light blue eyes, a half-head taller than her brother, looked up at her with some amazement; he said something in Mikshan, tone rising at the end.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He asked if you’re my sister.”

“Because of the red eyes?”

Hamayedi turned and spoke to the boy, who shrugged and said something sneeringly, poking Hamayedi’s cheek. Her brother swatted his hand away.

“Because you came to ‘save me,’ he says. But the eyes, too.”

Two of the boys had already grown impatient and started pushing their way further into the barley, past a stone wall with wrought iron fencing rising from it, overgrown with weeds. They were calling out in sing-song voices, and the girl followed after. Hasimi let loose a heavy sigh.

“If we were going to meet friends of yours, you should have said something.”

“I didn’t expect to run into them,” Hamayedi said, as though he had not just been kidnapped before her eyes. 

“You know how many Mikshan would just love to kill a lone Rider boy?” Hasimi grunted. “Don’t worry me like that.”

“Yes, sorry.” Her brother took a sudden acute interest in the ground at his feet. Remembering that his friend was still standing right at hand, he turned and spoke to him; he nodded and pointed where the others had gone, but both boys hesitated to walk.

“All right, go on, just stay where I can see you,” Hasimi said. She followed close behind them until they came to a small clearing where a circle had been cut around a stand of barley stalks as thick as a horse’s belly. She could see fine black ash around it, as well, and noticed that there were strange dark green growths nearly the corns of each stalk.

The children were already squatting down in front of it, one of the boys waving them over. Hasimi folded her arms across her chest and watched them make room for Hamayedi and the taller boy, the girl shifting ever-so-slightly closer to them.

The exchange grew animated, and though she no longer understood a single word they said, she could see the energy in her brother’s face and hands. She shook her head and strode over to join them.

“What are these things, anyway?” she said, poking one of the bulbous masses. It glistened up close, and she felt a cool moisture on her finger as she drew it back; the smell was faint but nonetheless unpleasant.

“It’s a fungus, like a mushroom. But it only grows on barley,” Hamayedi said, the young girl pulling a face at Hasimi and saying something in her soft, almost inaudible voice. “She says you probably shouldn’t touch it.”

Hasimi arched a brow; “Poisonous?”

“No, you can even eat it safely, but it’s bad enough that they cut down all the stuff around it and burned it until they ” He turned and spoke to the other children; the taller boy spoke at length, making wild gestures, sticking out his tongue, the other children laughing. “He says that if you eat a lot of it at once in bread, it makes you go crazy for a little while. His uncle tried it once,” Hamayedi said. “I didn’t understand a lot of the words, though. Sorry.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to believe you were born a Rider,” Hasimi said, wiping the slime from the fungus on her leggings.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said, frowning.

“You look happier talking about this . . . thing,” she said, pointing to the fungus, “than I’ve ever seen you on horseback.”

“But it’s interesting,” he said. “Don’t you think?”

“Can’t say I do,” Hasimi said. “I don’t care where the bread comes from or what it looks like as long as there’s enough to feed our clan.”

“Our clan, huh?” Hamayedi looked away as the children pulled him back into their chatter. The skinniest of the boys fumbled around under his worn linen tunic and produced a small bronze tube with a lacquered wooden plug in one end, pulling it free and dumping a small roll of thin white fabric into his hand. He handed it to Hamayedi, who thanked him in Mikshan several times and unrolled it.

Hasimi recognized the drawings of the settled-folk that were supposed to make sounds, or tell people what sounds to make, and watched her brother make his way slowly through them, to the delight of the others. He paused, sucking in the right side of his cheek slightly.

“What is it about?” she asked.

“Triangles.”

“Tri—what?”

“Things with three sides.”

Understanding passed over his face and he went back to reading out the Mikshan words, smiling at the awe in his friends’ faces.

“Seems like such a waste,” Hasimi said.

“What does?”

“Burying your head in scrolls and farming. All these things U-Lim’s making you study.”

“He’s not making me do it, I like it.” Hamayedi’s voice took on a slight edge, and his shoulders bunched up into his neck.

“But you’re strong, like me. Don’t you want to do something with that?”

The taller Mikshan boy cocked his head at her and asked her brother a question, but Hamayedi turned back to reading the scroll. Hasimi smiled at the children and held up the palms of both of her hands, eliciting curious looks.

“Come on,” she said, waving them towards her and rapping the knuckles of one hand against the open flat of the other. “Let’s see how strong you are.”

Hamayedi muttered something to them, but the boys looked excited. One made a fist and looked at her with wide eyes.

“It’s a game Riders play with children. I used to play it with him all the time,” she said, pointing to her brother. The children understood her well enough for even the small girl to stand up and approach.

“Come on, do we have to?” Hamayedi asked.

“Don’t be greedy with your friends, now,” Hasimi said, smirking. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”

Each of the four children took turns swinging at her hands, arms wobbling about, fists twisting in ways that might have been dangerous if they had any power behind them. Many times she had to catch the blows softly, drawing her hand back or turning it away so that young bones were not broken. Finally, the children started egging on Hamayedi, beckoning him to try. She heard the settled-folk’s word for ‘Rider’ thrice, and he finally relented, squaring up in front of her.

She smiled at the sight; however much he neglected his training in the last two years, his body had not forgotten the basic forms. One leg behind, guard by his head, elbows tight. His hip turned, guiding his body, and his own exposed palm shot forward, striking flat against hers instantly after the image she had seen of it. She twisted back as her arm was knocked away, planting it behind her as she nearly fell to the ground. She felt a grin take over her face as she planted one knee and took up a firmer guard, but Hamayedi went slack and retreated a step.

“There, I did it, can I go back to reading?”

The other children looked at him in silence, jaws hanging loose before exploding into cheers, crowding around him. Hasimi looked at the red skin on her hand where he’d struck and rose to her feet.

“That was a good one, Hama,” she said. “It stings.”

“Sorry.”

The boys let the excitement get the better of them and started to wrestle one another, the girl murmuring to Hamayedi and excusing herself. After a brief word with the boy who gave him the scroll, Hamayedi sat down in an empty patch of dirt against the nearby wall and fell to reading in silence, occasionally watching his friends at play. Hasimi leaned against the iron rails next to him and shouted encouragement.

“You know why Segren brought you, right?”

“He told me you’re going to take your Riding Name,” Hamayedi said.

“I’ll be one of the youngest people ever to do so.”

“He said you killed Daraz.”

“That’s how I earned it.”

“I thought you were, um, close.”

“We were, what has that to do with anything?” Hasimi asked. Hamayedi rolled up the scroll slowly, carefully, and slid it back into the tube it came from, replacing the top. He drew his knees up to his chest.

“You didn’t have to, did you?”

“I . . .” Hasimi paused, searching his face, salt-red eyes peering into each other. His words hadn’t rung sad, or even wondering. “He was too weak to fight me and he wouldn’t surrender, so I . . . ” She swallowed hard. “He should have given up.”

Two of the Mikshan boys had banded against the tallest one, rushing him and pinning him to the ground. Hasimi watched the struggle, but lost interest when the taller boy could not manage to throw off either of his attackers.

“What name will you take?” Hamayedi asked after a while.

“I haven’t had much time to think about it. This was just decided today, and I didn’t expect it.”

“Maybe you can ask whoever is doing the ritual to come up with it?”  
Hasimi grimaced.

“I refuse to let U-Lim choose my name.”

“Master is doing the ritual?” Hamayedi asked, seeming to Hasimi to be genuinely interested for the first time. “Do you think that means mother will—”

“I don’t think so,” Hasimi said, wincing as her brother’s face fell. She threw her arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. “But we’re together, and father’s with us.”

The Mikshan boys exhausted themselves, said their goodbyes, and left the two red-eyed children to sit together in the strange farm on a torn-up street, ruins shading them from the heat of midday.

“Is there anywhere else you want to go?” Hasimi asked.

“No, this is fine.”

“Really? All you wanted to see was some barley rot?”

“Fungus.”

“All right. You tired?”

“No, I—”

“Take a nap. We’ll go to the hill when you wake up.”

Instead, Hamayedi pulled the scroll from its tube and went back to reading it to himself. He was about his task for some time before his eyelids started drooping little by little, his careful grip on the scroll slackening. He had drifted off only moments before when Hasimi’s ear perked up at approaching footsteps through the barley. She withdrew her arm from behind Hamayedi, letting the wall support him as she rose, hands moving to her swords. The footsteps went silent, but at that very instant she felt something move to her right and spun about, taking the grips of her swords and—

“Hold, you foolish child, hold,” U-Lim said, leaning back out of harm’s way, both hands raised. “You are strung tighter than a war bow.”

Hasimi released her blades. “The people here look at us unkindly. I thought someone might be trying to hurt my brother.”

“Well, I did follow rumors of red eyes here to find you, but to go by their voices, the people of Yevalam have allowed their fear of you to outweigh their hatred of Riders.” U-Lim turned to the slowly rousing Hamayedi, kneeling down and stretching a hand out to him. “It is good to see you again.”

“Master!” Hamayedi shouted, sleep fleeing from him the moment he recognized the hand grasping his. “Look, master—” His eyes went wide when he realized the scroll was no longer in his hands, and he turned round twice before he noticed that it lay where he had just been sitting. He scrambled to pick it up off the ground, checking it for damage.

“A piece of Revagan’s treatise on the geometry of triangles,” U-Lim said. “I know of a monastery that has a copy of the whole work, but this is quite a rarity. Treasure it.”

“Of course, master,” Hamayedi said, dusting the scroll gently and putting it back in its tube.

“I gather from your father that you have kept up with your studies since we last met. Have you finished the texts I left with you?”

“I have. I’ve read each one at least three times.”

“What I would give to see such diligence from my charges in the shrine.”

“What should I read next?”

“As it happens, you and I will talk at length about your studies soon. For now, I have come to fetch you both to the hill. Your sister has certain preparations she must attend to before she can take her Riding Name,” U-Lim said, ushering them out of the walled field.

Hamayedi led the way out just as he had the way in, U-Lim watching him from a few paces behind, Hasimi glaring at U-Lim.

“Nothing to say to him about balance?” she asked.

“Balance? No. I told your father I would speak to Hamayedi about being ‘well-rounded.’ But we will have this discussion at a later time,” the shaman said.

“You should stop interfering with our clan.”

“My ‘interference,’ as you put it, is the will of your mother, whom I serve. It is not for me to decide. Even if it were, I would still care for the two of you, and your father.”

“Then tell my mother not to interfere,” Hasimi hissed, turning to watch Hamayedi’s back as they turned towards the main street and the heart of Yevalam. She frowned as she noticed many of the passersby bowing to U-Lim. “If she has no intention of ever showing up, then she should stop sending you. Every time you come, my brother hopes she’ll be here.”

“Neither my master nor I am insensate to that,” U-Lim said, his voice turning to a rumble in his throat. “Now, since you are feeling unusually open to speaking with me today, I have something to ask of you.”

“Hold on, I’m not fini—”

“You’ve been seeing more visions lately, have you not?”

Hasimi’s spine went stiff, but she kept walking in step with the shaman.

“And they are more horrific as of late, yes? In proportion to your growing strength.”

Hasimi felt him waiting. “Are you going to explain what’s happening or am I still not ‘ready’ yet?”

“Not yet. But I can offer you a reprieve. I can assure you that if you accompany my disciples and I on our next pilgrimage, the experience will alleviate what ails you. However . . .”

“I’ll pass, shaman. Shit!” Hamayedi vanished from sight for a moment as they finally rejoined the busy street that ran through the heart of the ruined city. “Hama, stay close,” she shouted.

“I’m right here, sister,” he replied, turning and walking past a few people on his way back to them. Despite the same unpleasant looks on their faces, she noticed more clearly that Rider and settled-folk alike avoided letting him touch them. There were even a few gasps as Hamayedi fell into line with her and U-Lim, who was chuckling softly.

“What is it, master?” Hamayedi asked, noticing the strange sound coming from the shaman.

“Some people insist on making their paths harder than they need to be. You’ll understand in time.”

Hamayedi and U-Lim spoke of their readings to Hasimi’s boredom for the rest of their walk down the main road, as they turned off towards the northeast gate and began climbing the shallow slope of Old Shrine Hill. She noticed that they were joined by a steady stream of Mikshan either going up the hill with bread, cheeses, and dried meats, or going down the hill with scraps of already eaten foods and empty barrels of ale. The sky, clear for all of the morning, had been swept upon by cloud, and a mild wind blew down from the north. As they neared the top, she could hear familiar voices and the sounds of yurts being raised.

In the center of the people, stakes, and felt canvasses was a stack of wood half the height of a man, the last logs being carried into place by the men of Aydun.

“The pyre is nearly prepared,” U-Lim said, turning to Hasimi. “Then you mustn’t lose any time doing your part.”

“Can I help?” Hamayedi asked.

“It would go better if you could, but this is something Hasimi must do herself.”

“What is this, shaman? I’ve been to making days before and I’ve never seen any—”

“Then perhaps you should pay closer attention to the world beyond the tip of your spear?” U-Lim snapped, pointing to where the weary Aydun chieftain stood, watching the pyre being built. “You will go speak to Harrud and ask him if there is any service you may render him. Now.”

Hasimi clenched her fists, felt the heat rising in her head, but grit her teeth and strode over to Harrud.

“Hasimi,” he rumbled. “I owe you and Narik an apology for both my and my son’s dishonorable behavior today. It is no excuse, but I was reminded today that I am a father as much as I am a Rider. My youngest son . . .”  
Normally towering over all, Harrud looked somehow shrunken, and she swallowed the tension in her jaw.

“Chieftain, is there anything I can do for you?” she asked. Harrud turned to her slowly, agape, his battle-scarred face almost soft. He blinked several times before he tried an answer.

“Yes, my . . . Teygan. I know that it is a strange request, but I would ask that you speak to him. He is just there, in my yurt.”

Hasimi had never known Harrud to make jokes, so she followed his pointing finger towards the largest of the tents on the hill. She braced for an attack as she reached for the flap, pulled it open, and stepped inside. She heard no reaction from the large figure outlined in the glow of a fire in the center, hands moving about a table. Her eyes adjusted, and she recognized Teygan’s broad back, the oiled cloth in his hand, a body on the table before him—Daraz’s body. He dragged the cloth along his brother’s arm slowly, set the arm down gently and dipped the cloth again in the bowl nearby.

“It’s too late to change my mind, father.”

“I’m not your father,” Hasimi said, fighting every instinct as Teygan spun around, eyes blazing. Her hands longed to go for a weapon, her feet to create some distance to size up the threat, but she willed herself to stay rooted to the spot.

“Get out of here before I tear you limb from limb,” he growled.

“Your father asked me to—”

“My father!” he stiffened, catching himself shouting in the presence of his brother’s corpse. “My father cares more for his pride than his dead son. Since I seem to be the only person who loved my brother, let me ready him for the spirit world in peace. Or have you come to eat his soul at the last, witch?”

“Listen, I came here—”

“Perhaps I should snap the neck of your little brother so you can understand,” Teygan said, advancing a step, his face twisted into a mask of hate. Hasimi nearly threw herself at him, but just past him, she saw Daraz’s body fade away, leaving Hamayedi’s on the table. Her blood froze in her veins, and her breath escaped her. The feeling of cool water sliding down one side of her face gave her the strength to shake her head, driving out the sight. When she turned back to Teygan, she noticed the glistening droplets clouding his sight. Even in the soft firelight of the yurt she could see his eyelids were swelling.

“I don’t think your father would have asked me to talk to you if he didn’t care. I’m the one who killed Daraz, so if you have any complaints, say them to me.” She leaned back against one of the thick stakes supporting the canvas, closing her eyes. “You can even hit me if it will make you feel better.”

Teygan took a step towards her. Another. Then a rumbling began in his throat, rising to a growl that finished as a roar of frustration as he punched the air just next to her face with all his might. When Hasimi opened her eyes, he had turned away and walked back to the table, taking up the rag again. He went about his work for quite some time before he spoke.

“Nothing I do now will bring him back. And the longer I look at him like this, the less angry I am.” He reached out with his empty hand and touched the left side of Daraz’s chest, stepping aside so she could see where his hand lay. The once proud form was entirely collapsed, the skin about where Daraz’s ribs had once been a single great bruise. “I had thought that Daraz held back out of love for you. I thought you had used that against him. But then when I took off his clothes to clean his wounds, and I saw this . . .”

He furrowed his brow, shaking his head slowly.

“Clan Aydun fights more often and more widely than Clan Shihiin. I have fought all kinds of men, some even bigger than my father. I’ve killed some of those men. But I have never seen anyone do with axe or hammer what you did to my brother with your bare hands.” His voice quavered as he spoke, but he never looked away from her. “If you have this strength, you could have beaten him without killing him easily. The duel was yours to decide all along, wasn’t it?”  
Hasimi was the one who could not bear to look at Teygan, and closed her eyes again.

“Does your father know? Did he unleash you on us knowing you could do this?” His powerful voice was cut with pleading. “Why did you—”

“You said your father was trying to talk you out of something,” Hasimi said, just loud enough to drown him out, just quick enough to give him pause.

“I . . . Yes. I have decided to give up the spear and bow.” He smiled weakly. “I am my father’s only son, now. More than my own glory, that the family continue and our stories pass down the ages is what matters. I shall leave the war camp when this funeral is done, buy some sheep, take a wife, and mourn.”

“I don’t see Harrud accepting that.”

“He may have hoped you would share your fighting spirit with me, but he will have to accept my decision.”  
Hasimi nodded slowly.

“I see. Then there’s nothing for me to say. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Hah, I almost thought you would want to stay with him,” Teygan said.  
Hasimi looked at the body in the firelight and felt a chill at the base of her neck. She turned and made for the flap of the tent.

“Wait, there is one more thing I would say, Hasimi.”

“Go on,” she said, not turning.

“I know that when you were fighting, Daraz was giving everything he could. But you were bored, weren’t you? He bored you, but he kept trying to hold on . . . you killed him to get him to stop wasting your time. That’s why I am not angry anymore. Just afraid.”

She noticed the sound of rainfall upon the felt of the tent mingling with the crackling of the fire inside, but neither of these could distract from Teygan’s words. Though her instincts told her not to, Hasimi turned back to look at him, and saw Daraz’s corpse sitting up on the table, his eyes the same color as hers and shooting her through with a sightless stare. Teygan and his dead brother’s mouths moved in unison.

“Leave the valley before you destroy everything.”

Hasimi ran from the yurt quickly, stumbling out under the eave to see that the rain had been going for some time and was picking up. A large canvas had been laid over top of the pyre, and Harrud was shouting at Aydun who were now setting up an open-side tent over it.

“Hasimi!” Her father jogged up to her, joining her under the eave. “I hate to say it, but if this keeps up, we’ll have to cancel the ceremonies for today. Though it looks like they’ll do the cremation anyway.”

“Father . . .”

“What is it?” Her father looked at her with concern. “Have you been crying?”

“No, the rain just . . . Where is Hamayedi?”

“He’s with U-Lim in, uh, one of these tents around here. Not sure which, I’ve been busy helping put things away since the rain started.”

Hasimi walked out into the rain to start with the nearest tent, but stopped when she noticed something cresting the hill from its northern side: a man and a woman on horseback. She could faintly see a mist of shifting colors rise from the man’s body, and the woman wore a white veil that seemed to drip like blood from her face, flowing over her whole body, untouched by the rain. Though they were only two, riding at a leisurely pace, she heard the galloping of what must have been every horse in the world, and felt the ground shaking itself apart beneath her as they entered the camp.


	6. Book I, Chapter 6

Hasimi heard her father call out to Harrud, heard the Aydun chieftan greet the strangers, but she dared not look away from them for a moment. Their movements were perfectly mundane, she sensed nothing strange in their voices. The aura about the man disappeared almost as soon as he greeted Harrud, and the woman pulled back her veil to reveal a normal—if very delicate—face. She could see Harrud taken aback by those bright green eyes, but her father gave no sign of having noticed. They dismounted from their horses without incident, but even as Harrud ushered them into his tent, she hesitated even to blink. It took her some time to notice that her father was beckoning her over to join them in the chieftain’s tent.

The well-trodden ground of the hill had been covered over with the best furs and rugs the Aydun had, and a small stone circle had been made for a fire, a few cushions ringing it closely. Only one of Harrud’s wives was in the tent, fast asleep under stitched-together wolf pelts though it was not yet evening.

“You are very kind, chieftain,” the man said, removing his lamellar chest-piece and the chainmail beneath it with a sigh of relief. “We’d already been long on the road when this weather swept down on us.”

“It would shame my clan to turn away strangers in a storm. I assume you’ve ridden since morning?”

“We set out from camp three days ago, stopping only to sleep,” the woman said, her voice soft as fox fur. “Our horses will be grateful of the rest.” She took a half step towards one of the cushions by the fire, pausing until Harrud gestured for her to sit. A smile came over her face as she sat in front of the fire, warming her hands. Hasimi noticed that her skin was entirely dry, and neither her veil nor her dress clung to her. The man, on the other hand, was soaked through and the green of the cushion he sat on immediately darkened.

“That’s a long ride for two, what brings you to Yevalam so far from your clan?” her father asked, taking a seat next to the man and arching a brow. “Eloping?”

Both strangers laughed; he looked to her, she shook her head and waved her hand emphatically.

“You see I have no such luck,” the man said.

“Please forgive his foolery,” Harrud growled, sitting opposite the three of them. The chieftain gestured for Hasimi to take the cushion next to the woman, bowing his head slightly. “His daughter, at least, is respectable.”

The woman turned towards her, tilted her head and squinted. The woman seemed much smaller sat there and looking so curious; Hasimi knelt on the cushion next to her and faced the fire.

“There is nothing to forgive,” the woman said, turning to her companion. “I wish you had told me that the Westerners have good senses of humor; I would have spoken with more of them on the road.”

“Westerners?” Harrud asked. “So you are . . . ?”

“Oh, forgive me,” the man said, shaking his head. “My name is Aveyir, and this is Elamash. To answer your question, we’ve come from the heart of the plains on our chieftain’s business. We’re looking for allies from the valley in our upcoming campaign.”

“Campaign? You’re at war?” Hasimi asked, leaning forward.

“We soon shall be.” The woman named Elamash closed her eyes as though fondly imagining it. Hasimi noticed the stiffness in her father’s back, the exchange of looks between he and Harrud.

“Father, I’ve finished prepar—” Teygan stepped into the tent, already dripping wet. He frowned, but marshaled the sense to bow. “I didn’t know we were expecting guests.”

“We weren’t, but they were caught out in the storm and the hill road is treacherous when it turns to mud,” Harrud said. He was looking at his son similar to how Hasimi’s father had looked at her of late.

“I have finished preparing the body, and helped finish the tent over the pyre. Whenever you are ready,” Teygan said. Harrud sat silent, expectation plain on his flat face.

“Pyre? Oh, are you holding a memorial?” Aveyir asked. “Spirits forgive us, I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“The ceremony was overtaken by the rain already,” Harrud said, raising a hand. “We shall tend to the cremation tonight when you have gone to rest. Now, Teygan, was that all?”

“Yes, father.”

The two men stared at one another in the firelight, Harrud sighing and pointing at the cushion next to him. Teygan furrowed his brow, turned as if to open the tent flap and leave, then slowly made his way over to his father’s side.

“Whom did you lose?” Elamash asked.

“My youngest son, Daraz.” The name barely escaped Harrud’s mouth, as though he was trying to keep it safe within.

“I heard about Daraz the Swift recently, was that him?” Aveyir asked.

“Yes, it was,” Harrud said, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“How did he fall?”

“She killed him,” Teygan said, pointing to Hasimi.

Both strangers looked her over closely, the man’s eyes narrowing, a hand rising to rest against his upper lip. His mouth moved slightly beneath the hand, but no sound came out; she could tell he was looking into his own head more than at her.

“What is your name?” Elamash asked, leaning forward. She did not share her companion’s distraction, green eyes wide and set firmly upon Hasimi.

“She is Hasimi Shihiin,” Harrud said.

“Shihiin? As in the Shihiin you’ve told me so much about?” Elamash turned to Aveyir.

“You’ve heard of me?” Hasimi asked.

“No, but Narik Shihiin is a legend,” Aveyir said, jerking a thumb back at her father. “I won’t feign surprise that his daughter is a strong fighter.” He suddenly looked abashed, glanced at Harrud out of the corners of his eyes, and fell silent.

“Well, I’m used to being recognized, but now you know all of us and we still don’t know which clan you come from, or who your chieftain is,” Narik said.

“I am of Clan Chuylug,” Aveyir said.

“I was not born a Rider, but to Hazak shepherds,” Elamash said, reaching her hand closer to the fire. “I am priestess of Kulsoun, goddess of the hunt. It is her will that I aid Aveyir’s chieftain.” For an instant, Hasimi thought she saw the woman reach into the fire and pull some piece of it away, floating free in the palm of her hand.

“I had thought the Hazak and Chuylug hated one another,” Harrud said, suspicion heavy in his voice.

“It isn’t a matter of clans and blood-feuds anymore. Many different peoples—Riders, wanderers, and even some of the settled-folk—serve High Chief Takou,” Aveyir said. “We have come to rally more to her banner.”

‘High Chief’ hung suspended in the air about Hasimi’s ears. Teygan folded his arms over his chest and clucked his tongue.

“So those stories have some truth to them,” he said. “Does this Takou intend to conquer those of us who don’t submit, like she did with the heartland and the east?”

“Both my goddess and the High Chief wish for Riders to unite in a common purpose for their own welfare. There will be no coercion,” Elamash said.

“My son speaks fairly,” Harrud said. “Word has reached our ears of your destruction of Clan Galchem for their refusal of the call. Over two-thousand Riders slaughtered.”

“No clan has that many Riders,” Hasimi said, “Do they?” She turned to her father, who said nothing, his face dark as he studied the strangers.

“Wishing no insult, this valley is a small part of the plains. My clan is one of the smallest in the heartlands and we can call on seven-hundred Riders,” Aveyir said. “As for Clan Galchem, it was not merely that they refused to join us. They had their people speaking to our allies, trying to turn them against us. They supplied clans that were uniting against us with weapons and food from their Mikshan slaves. Surely that makes them the High Chief’s enemies.”

“There hasn’t been a High Chief in over a hundred years,” Narik said. “What makes this Takou think she has a claim to the title over anyone else?”

“She has the blessings of the goddess,” Elamash said, “And thus far she has crushed everyone who has dared oppose her. I had thought Riders respected strength above all else.” Aveyir frowned at the priestess, whose expression remained utterly serene.

“Ha-Shihiin,” Aveyir began, bowing his head.

“My children have exalted names, not me,” Narik cut in.

“. . . Indeed, then I hope you’ll understand,” Aveyir said. He smiled though he knit his brows, his tongue driving against one cheek as he tried the savor of a few different words. “You know, I had hoped you would recognize me as I recognized you.”

Narik paused, leaning forward.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“I was very young. I know you met with many hopeful young Riders all over the plains back then, and Aveyir is a common name but . . . Meeting you, who started the uprising, was one of the greatest moments of my life. You were my hero.” Though he had looked a man of thirty and some years until then, Hasimi watched time fall from his face until he wore the smile of someone her age. Her father lingered on him for a moment, realization dawning in his eyes.

“You’re the boy who was raiding slave caravans out by Efuz! That Aveyir!” He laughed and pat the younger man on the back heartily.

“It seems one of your disciples has come back to haunt us,” Harrud growled. “I warned you to leave the outsiders to their own battles.”

“My people are all grateful that he taught so many of us to fight the Mikshan,” he said to Harrud, who merely grunted.

“But I remember when we heard Yevalam was taken, and every clan started to bring down the cities that had ruled them . . . there was fear in our camps. Would we be free only to fight and kill each other? When all the elders and chieftains got together and agreed to ask you to be High Chief, everyone felt relieved,” Aveyir said, glancing at Narik for a moment more, then turning back to the fire.

“I’m sorry I’ve let you down,” Narik said. Aveyir was silent, motionless for a time.

“Takou and I grew up together. She was my second when I met you. But when you turned down the offer and we went back to killing each other like we’ve always done, she decided to continue your work. She inspired our people in a way I couldn’t, and gave them a future to aim for. That’s why she’s High Chief, and that’s why she—and I—want you to join us. The hero of the uprising can help bring the Riders together once and for all,” Aveyir said.

Hasimi’s heart was swollen to bursting, but as she looked at her father, he was completely unmoved.

“And when the Riders are united, what will this High Chief do with them?” Harrud asked.

“Conquer the world,” Elamash said, eyes flashing. Teygan burst into laughter, waking his father’s wife, but the rest of the tent was silent. The flap was drawn back at that moment to reveal the figure of U-Lim. Elamash’s peaceful smile twitched for a moment, but quickly regained its shape. “Shaman, it’s so good to see you.”

“Truly?” U-Lim asked. “I take it you’ve been selling this lot on your High Chief’s vision?”

“You knew about this?” Hasimi asked.

“Of course I did. You think my travels could take me so far and I would not hear of an upstart warlord in the last two years?” the shaman said, dropping onto the cushion next to Hasimi. “It was only a matter of time until they turned their eyes here.”

“This is what you spoke to our fathers about earlier, isn’t it?” Teygan asked.

“What do you think?” U-Lim snapped.

“Of course you told them we were coming,” Elamash said, closing her eyes. “I suppose that is why they have been so suspicious of us. That is a cold way to repay the hospitality we’ve shown you in our camp.”

“We’re suspicious because it’s hard to take the measure of someone when they send others to speak on their behalf,” Narik said. “I’d rather meet with your chieftain face-to-face.”

“She wants to meet you, as well,” Aveyir said. “She is coming to speak in the market square in Yevalam, we have sent people to speak to all the chieftains of the valley, we hope to see quite a few of them there.”

“So you really are recruiting for war?” Hasimi asked, heat flooding her limbs. Elamash turned to her and let slip a sultry laugh.

“My, at least I feel assured that we have your spear,” she said. “As to the measure of the High Chief, you are right. To see is to know. Do you have a washing bowl or a wine bowl, chieftain?” she asked. Harrud looked at her quizzically, then slapped Teygan’s arm. His son rose and fetched a wide-rimmed clay bowl from a nearby table, careful not to spill any of the water. Elamash rose to accept it in one hand, holding her other over it. She stood with a stillness that unsettled Hasimi; only her mouth moved as she formed silent incantations in some strange language.

It was as though the bowl had become clear, the fire showing through the water, somehow becoming more brilliant as it passed through it; wild shapes of yellow, orange, and red danced along the roof the tent, whirling about faster and faster until they bled into one another. The fire itself turned white, and the maelstrom of color crowning the tent gave way to an image, clear as life, of a horde of Riders far too numerous to count. They swept across the plains and up the foothills, past one ruined wall, then another, and yet another, each greater and piled higher with bodies than the last.

At the peak of the hills they burst through a hole in the innermost wall wide enough for ten horses to pass at once, and spread out over a city greater even than Yevalam, cutting down every soldier in their path. From afar, Hasimi saw the city ablaze, giant wooden monsters standing idle near the base of the hills. Behind them lay a field of looted corpses and splintered wood that stretched on forever.

“That is the might of the High Chief as of our last major battle,” Aveyir said, somewhat in awe himself.

“That was a Lengut city,” Narik said.

“Yes, Somurru,” Elamash said, removing her hand slowly from over the bowl, the images fading from the roof of the tent. She took in a deep breath and knelt back down, setting aside the bowl. “One-hundred-and-twenty-thousand people lived in that city.”

“And now?” Narik asked. Elamash met his gaze, but said nothing. Harrud and Teygan had both lost all the color in their faces.

“Whatever that sorcery was, how do we know we just saw the truth, and not a trick?” Teygan asked.

“It was the truth,” Hasimi said, voice firm as stone. “No question.”

“The girl is right,” U-Lim said. “If it were false, she could see it with those eyes, fool though she is.”

She noticed Elamash was watching her closely now, and a soft hand reached out to brush a stray strand of her hair from her face. The priestess gasped slightly.

“Your eyes are truly wonderful,” she said. “I have seen such eyes only once before, and they speak of a mighty destiny.” Hasimi felt unable to look away from her.

“How many Riders can you muster?” Harrud asked. “And those wooden . . . things? What are . . .”

“At that battle, I commanded twenty-thousand Riders,” Aveyir said. “I am one of seven generals, and each of us can call on thirty-thousand if we need to. But we have also begun to recruit from the Mikshan, or wanderer tribes like the Hazak. After we took Somurru, some of the Lengut joined us, too; our ranks grow every day. And those machines are our siege engines.”

“I have never seen such things. We had a catapult we’d taken from the Mikshan when we brought down Yevalam, but those . . .” Harrud was looking to Narik as though he was lost.

“In my travels I’ve only seen such engines come from one place,” he said. “You have a defector from the Silver River kingdoms?”

“You are as worldly as Aveyir has said.” Elamash cooed, finally drawing back her hand from Hasimi’s cheek and letting her blink. “Our engineer is a most brilliant man, and that he came to Takou is another sign that she has the favor of my goddess.”

“For what that’s worth,” U-Lim said. The priestess leaned forward and reached past Aveyir to touch Narik’s knee.

“Now I am persuaded of what Aveyir has told me. It is clear my goddess sent me here that I would meet you and your daughter and you would join us.” She let each finger fall from his leg slowly, separately as she leaned back.

“Then I’ll disappoint you again. Clan Shihiin will have no part in this,” Narik said.

“Wait, father, what are you saying?” Hasimi shouted, startling even herself. “This is the greatest chance I’ll have. I’m a Rider, I should go to war as you did.”

“Don’t speak of war like you know anything about it,” Narik said, glaring at her. “The battles they plan to fight are nothing like what you’ve seen; thousands of people die nameless in the mud. I don’t want that for my clan, and certainly not for my daughter.”

“Narik.” U-Lim said his name with more gentleness than Hasimi thought the shaman bore her father. Aveyir was casting his eyes about the gathering, gritting his teeth.

“Ah, please, hold. I apologize for Elamash being so forward. Of course we wish to ask you, but we just came so you could think about it before the High Chief arrives. Then you can speak to her yourself. Narik, if you just talked to her in-person, I’m sure you would—”

Hasimi watched her father walk for the flap of the tent even as Aveyir spoke.

“You have my answer.” He looked not at her, nor at Aveyir, but was focused on the priestess.

“Father!”

“This is not a discussion, Hasimi. Your chieftain has spoken. I’ll see you at our usual inn back in town.”

“No sense in you leaving, stay in my guest tent tonight,” the Aydun chieftain said. Narik stepped out into the rain without acknowledging the offer.

“Did I offend him somehow?” Aveyir asked, crestfallen. Elamash laughed softly.

“Such a splendid man. Your father loves you greatly,” she said, turning to Hasimi. “It should be a heavy thing, to think of leading your kin into war.”

“Heavy, but worthy. He has become soft of late,” Harrud said. “If you came seeking the Narik Shihiin of old, that man is dead.”

“You should take Hasimi with you, though,” Teygan said. “She will surely destroy anything or anyone you set her against.”

Hasimi had no attention to spare him; she stared at the mouth of the tent where the back of her father had been pierced by a sword held in a ghostly hand before he left. Her head began to throb, and when she looked back at Aveyir and Elamash, the mist rising from the man’s body was even clearer than when she first laid eyes on him; the veil, though drawn back from Elamash’s face, again began to drip off her and pool out across the ground, threatening to swallow the fire and everyone around it.

U-Lim rose from his cushion swiftly and caught her as she doubled over. Harrud stood and barked some order to his wife that Hasimi could not hear clearly, and before long the only thing she could hear was the shaman’s voice, as though it was coming from inside her own head.

“Do not fear; the pain you are feeling now will pass. Do not fight it, let yourself sleep. You will wake refreshed, I promise you.”

She grit her teeth and grabbed at him as tightly as she could, but soon even the sensation in her hands had left her, and the world grew dark.


	7. Book I, Chapter 7

Consciousness was slow to return to Hasimi, her sense of her own body slower still. After a moment of struggle, she forced her eyes open to find more darkness, then a gradual softening into firelight. A familiar snoring close at hand drew her attention, but turning her head right to face it took an age. There, up against the centerpost of the large tent, sat her father. Her little brother leaned upon his shoulder, both of them sleeping deeply.

As the strength returned to her bones, she felt aware of something at her left, and sat up quickly to face an unmoving metal mask. U-Lim squatted next to her, arms resting across his knees.

“I trust you can hear me, still,” he said, voice resonating not from his mask, but within Hasimi’s mind. She winced as a throbbing pain worked its way around her head once. She opened her mouth, and the shaman’s hand shot out to cover it, his head moving slowly from side-to-side. She blinked, then furrowed her brow.

“Yes,” she thought.

“Good, good. How does your body feel?”

“Weak. How long have I been asleep?”

“Only through the evening; it is the dead of night. You will need far more rest than that after what happened to you.”

U-Lim said.

“What did happen?” Hasimi asked, looking down; she had been laid under thick furs as though she were sick, and she felt cool moisture on her forehead, saw the wet linen cloth that had fallen from it onto her lap when she sat up. The faces of Aveyir and Elamash formed before her eyes, and the pounding in her skull returned. Her whole body tensed upon itself—teeth clenching, hands balling into fists, curling over onto herself.

U-Lim placed a hand upon her head.

“This is not a thing you can rush,” he said, speaking softly aloud. “Walk with me.” As he rose, the pain wracking Hasimi’s body drained from her, and though her limbs were still weak, she could bring herself up onto her feet. She lingered over her father and brother as U-Lim made for the flap of the tent.

“Let them rest,” he said. “They only fell asleep a short while ago, after fretting over you all evening. Come.”

The rain had passed, the moon casting its pale light from a clear black sky. The wind was silent, and Hasimi could clearly hear the murmurings of the nearby Aydun night watchmen, the rowdy drinking party still going on in a tent at the far end of the camp, and the crackling of pyres.

“You have good timing,” U-Lim said, folding his arms behind his back and inclining his head towards the tent at the camp’s center. “Now that our guests have gone to sleep, the cremation is being held. Had you woken much later, I would have been busy with it.”

“Gone to sleep? Here?” Hasimi asked.

“Hmph, I suppose it was too much to expect that you might have grown more observant as well,” he said, shaking his head. “They sleep not two lengths of a man from where you did. In any case, shall we see Daraz off to the spirit world?” He walked backwards towards the tent, beckoning her after.

Hasimi narrowed her eyes. “The favor you asked me to do for Harrud, you know what he wanted?”

“You ask this as though you think it is relevant. You are mistaken,” U-Lim said.

“He asked me—”

“Lower. Your. Voice.”

“He asked me to speak to Teygan.”

“And?”

“And the last thing he wants to see when he’s burning his brother’s body is my face.”

“I say again, and?” U-Lim stopped. “He who prides himself on being more experienced than you, do you think he has not seen off those he has killed? Brothers, sisters, sons, daughters? You owe it to Daraz to see it for yourself. Now be silent and observe.”

Hasimi noticed that one of the watchmen had taken an interest in the two strange people standing out in the dark talking at such an odd hour; she followed U-Lim into the pyre tent hastily. Harrud and Teygan stood before the tightly stacked, lashed-together logs, Daraz’s body laid out across them, skin slick with ritual oils, glistening by brazier-light. The chieftain’s sullen face turned to U-Lim, something shimmering just along the lower lids of his eyes. Teygan did not look away from his brother’s body, but bunched his shoulders into his neck tight enough to crush a stone between them.

“Shaman, you ha—” Harrud began, each word laden with weariness, then paused as his gaze drifted to Hasimi. “You have my thanks. I entrust my son’s safe passage to you.”

“You have my word, his spirit will find its way to its resting place,” U-Lim said. “Let us begin.”

He left Hasimi standing near the mouth of the tent and went to stand by the pyre, placing a hand upon Daraz’s forehead. From his throat rose half-spoken, half-sung words in the Old Tongue. She had seen him, and shamans from among the Riders, perform these rites and use these words, but it was the first time she had ever felt something from them. She had the sense she understood them. As he spoke, Harrud took up a torch lain by, lighting it by the brazier nearest him and passing it to U-Lim. The rhythm of the words slowed, she heard Daraz’s name among them, and then the shaman set the pyre ablaze. The familiar smell of horse fat rose from the treated wood, the flames devouring all of it, rising to lap at the body.

Teygan’s face twisted itself, trying to hold back the signs of pain, failing utterly. From time to time, he would glance over to Hasimi and the shapes of sorrow would mix with anger. Harrud, however, was tired. The shadows cut into his face were such that he looked to have seen two-hundred winters. Never did he pay her any mind as his youngest’s body was claimed by fire, but he did study his eldest with an expression she had seen from her father many times of late.  
Just when Daraz’s body was beginning to turn black, she saw him rise from the pyre as though it were the most natural thing in the world, his body not being destroyed by the flame but becoming it. He stepped down from the pyre and walked towards her, putting a hand on her shoulder as he passed. She turned to watch him leave, but he had already vanished; U-Lim alone was looking towards her.

The four of them watched in silence until the flames had stripped away anything that distinguished Daraz from another dead man. Still it burned, and would continue to until only a pile of ash remained. Rooted to his place by the pyre,

Harrud worked his jaw for a moment until he could muster words.

“Forgive me, Hasimi, but . . . I would ask that we postpone your making-day.”

Hasimi said nothing, had barely heard him speak. She saw her father’s face clearly in the Aydun chieftain’s.

“She understands,” U-Lim said. “Your son has gone to the spirits, you need time to mourn. We shall take our leave.”  
U-Lim bowed, took Hasimi’s arm, and led her back out into the night. Though they walked slowly, it was not long until they reached the edge of the camp, and a woman on watch waved them down. Recognizing U-Lim, she apologized and let them leave, but warned them not to get too far from the safety of the two clans.

They walked until they stood before a short wall, three rows of stone slabs piled atop each other at the highest, riddled with cracks and gaps. There were similar bits of stone strewn about, and though Hasimi had seen this place by daylight many times before, somehow it looked more complete under the moon. She could see a shadow of what it had once been, a shrine half-again the height of a man, with small nooks for offerings to the spirits.

The pain in her head returned, swift enough to send her to her knees.

“Focus,” U-Lim said, lifting her chin and pointing back towards the camp. “Do you see him?”

“S-see . . . Wh-who . . .” She struggled against the impulse to curl as tightly as she could into a ball, and looked out across that short span of grass and moonlight, and saw a single ember drifting through the air towards her. As it drew nearer, she saw more of them. She could not see the features as clearly as before, but when the figure stopped in front of her, she knew.

“Daraz?” she asked. She felt no pain, could stand again. The living flame nodded its head, stretched out an arm and pointed past her. A weight fell upon her back, and she turned staggering to see the ruins of the old shrine ablaze. Only after a moment did she realize that the flames all walked in the shapes of men and women, each turning its focus to her in that instant, and vanishing.

“Easy now, that’s enough,” U-Lim said. Only when he spoke did she realize she was breathing heavily, her heart beating hard enough to burst out her chest.

“What was that? What did you do to me?” Hasimi asked.

“How many times must I tell you to lower your voice?” U-Lim said, rapping her forehead with the heel of his palm.

“There are already those who take you for a witch; you wish to give them credence by shouting in ruins by moonlight?”

“Those were spirits, fire spirits!” Hasimi hissed. “I saw them all!”

“They were spirits, at least that much is true,” U-Lim said. “Do you see anything now?”

“I . . .” Hasimi whipped her head about, but the ruins were empty. Even the thing she had taken for Daraz was gone. “No.”

U-Lim nodded, led her to the stone wall and sat her down. “This process will take some time, now that it is begun."

"What process? Tell me--"

"Our guests from the heartlands, these representatives of the new High Chief, have you seen anything strange about them?” he asked.  
“You . . . ugh." Hasimi covered her face with one hand. "The man, there’s a mist that comes from his body. The color keeps changing. And the woman, her veil, her clothes are . . . like blood. I don’t know—what is happening to me? Did they do something?”

“No. Rather, not that they meant to. Your gift of sight has changed very slowly until recently, as have you. But sometimes the encounters we have can send life into a gallop,” U-Lim said.

“What are those people, really?”

The shaman shook his head. “That is not the right question to be asking now.”

Hasimi grit her teeth and grabbed her own legs tightly to still their shaking.

“What am I?”

“That will be the right question later, but not yet.” U-Lim sighed. “The hard way indeed. Narik, what is he to you? What has he always been to you?”

“Huh? My father.”

“And?”

“. . . A Rider?”

“And?”

“What has my father to do with it, shaman? You still haven't answered my que—”

“Your hero. He was your hero,” U-Lim said.

“Of course he was, he led the uprising, and the strongest Rider.” Hasimi turned to look intently at the grass. “He was everyone’s hero.”

“How did it feel to watch your hero refuse the call to war?” U-Lim squatted down such that his face was so close to hers she could feel the cold coming off his mask, but she refused to meet his empty eye sockets. “Or when he told you that you could not answer it?”

Hasimi said nothing.

“You think your father has grown soft.”

“No, he is just . . . getting old.”

“Soft, old, weak.”

“My father is not weak!” Hasimi barked.

“Ah, that is good; I agree. Then surely there is some strength behind his refusal. So why, when I said he ‘was’ your hero, did you not correct me?”

“That’s . . . save your word games for Hama. If you’re not going to tell me anything about what’s happening to me, I am done here.” She stood and walked past him despite the lack of feeling in her limbs. The heat had left her face after a few paces, and she stopped where she was. “I know you’re going to say I’m ‘not ready’ again if I ask about the things I see.”

“Only partly. I can tell you that the visions you see are real, just as when you read how people move. But it serves nothing for me to tell you their meaning, nor are you ready to know why they happen.”

“Fine. Then how about this: you’ve been around the High Chief before, right? You’ve seen her army and the people she fights with. if I go with her, will I get to see how strong I really am?”

“Your last question was much closer to the mark,” U-Lim said. “But if you just want your fortune told, I’ll humor you. Should you join Takou’s army, the legend you make will leave your father’s far behind. Should you remain in the valley, you will have peace, and no one will know your name.”

“I see. Thanks.”

“Do you intend to defy your father’s orders?”

“It’s not defiance. I just want to remind him that he was right to do what he’s done for Riders. When he sees I’m serious about this, I’m sure he’ll know what’s important,” Hasimi said. 

“Yes, I’m sure he will.”

She returned to the guest tent, sleep coming over her the instant she laid back down, despite the vague knot in her stomach when she saw Aveyir and Elamash lying a short distance away. She woke late in the morning to find Hamayedi reading next to her, sighing with relief to see his sister’s eyes open. Aveyir and Elamash were nowhere to be seen; Hamayedi told her that they had gone into the city some hours before.

“Where is father?” she asked.

“He’s outside getting our clan together, he says we’re all supposed to go back to our camp when you wake up.” Hamayedi reached out and touched her forehead. “You don’t feel hot anymore, are you okay?”

“Yes, why?”

“You look . . . I don’t know, angry? Father said you talked about something that made you mad last night. Is it about that?”

Hasimi tousled his hair. “I’m not angry, though; there’s just something I have to do. I’ll go find him. Wait here, okay?”

She left the tent over her brother’s protests about her health, and saw her clan mustering near the western face of the hill reins in hand. Her father stood speaking to Segren and Ezud as everyone checked their saddles and bags.

“Hasimi, you look well. Your father told us you took ill last night,” Segren said, waving to her. She saw her father stiffen at the mention of her name.

“Thought the Aydun might have slipped you some poison in your wine,” Ezud said, wincing as Segren nudged him. “What? It’s a joke. She’s fine.”

“That will be all. Now that my daughter’s awake, let’s make sure everyone’s ready to leave soon,” her father said, the two men nodding back and turning to leave.

“No, wait,” Hasimi said. “Did you tell them why we’re leaving?”

“Hasimi—”

“Another cocksure idiot from the heartlands pretending to be High Chief is coming here for some warm bodies, right?” Ezud asked. “Happens all the time, best we just stay clear of it.”

“No, this is different,” Hasimi said.

“Hasimi, that’s enough,” her father said, eyes flashing at her.

“We saw it ourselves, they have tens of thousands of riders, and weapons from the Sil . . . Silver . . .”

“Silver River Kingdoms?” Segren asked, turning to Narik with a grave expression.

“Hah! Sounds like she was drunk, not sick,” Ezud said, chuckling until he noticed that Narik was not. “Wait, really? You saw it, how?”

“I said enough, Hasimi!” her father shouted, drawing all the eyes of their clan to them.

“Chieftain, maybe you shouldn’t,” Segren murmured. He cocked his head to the side, both Hasimi and Narik turning to see Hamayedi stood a short distance away, wide-eyed.

“Everyone, listen!” Hasimi shouted. “The army of the High Chief is on its way. We met with two of its leaders last night, you can ask Harrud and Teygan.”

“So what?” One of her kin shouted. “Your father says they’re a waste of time, like always.”

“Ask what Harrud thinks,” Hasimi said. “Did he say they’re a waste of time?”

“Harrud ain’t our chief, you forget that?” another voice jeered. Hasimi felt her father put a firm hand on her shoulder, but she brushed it off quickly and took another step towards the crowd of her kin.

“Then listen to me. They are strong. I say it’s real. This army is our best chance to go beyond this valley and see what Riders are really supposed to be.”

This time, there was no response. Her father stepped up alongside her, glaring arrows into the side of her head.

“My daughter has forgotten her place. Your chieftain has already made his decision. We’re going home.”

“A Rider’s home is on horseback, wherever they want to be,” Hasimi said. There were a few murmurs; one woman cheered.

“Besides, why should we follow you?” another voice said. Hasimi felt a chill run through her veins, but the part of her that rushed to her father’s defense in the past was silent.

“Because he’s your chieftain and you swore oaths to him,” Ezud grunted.

“And he swore oaths to us, and to Riders, but he won’t let us raid, he won’t let us fight, all the things our ancestors did. Our clan is weak and my children have no freedom!” one of their kin shouted. Now there were more shout of agreement.

“He led the uprising that freed all of us!” Segren said. “You’d still be slaves if it weren’t for him.”

“And now he asks us to protect the damn Mikshan when they would use us like whores and animals!? He’s more a friend to them than to us now.”

“If any of you have complaints or think I’m getting weak, you can always try me,” her father shouted, drawing his sword and pointing it at the crowd. “I told you that years ago, and I still say it, but nobody has had the guts to step forward. Well? What about now?” He stalked up and down the front row of the gathering like a hungry wolf.

“Hungry, or wounded,” Hasimi muttered to herself.

“So, who will it be? You? You? Anyone?” He stopped with his sword tip but a hand-span from the throat of a stocky young man with rough stubble and a scarred lip: a distant cousin she barely recognized.

“Hasimi,” he said. “She’s the strongest there is. I’ll follow her wherever she goes. Hasimi!”

“She’s a real warrior!”

“Hasimi!”

Hasimi shut her eyes tight as her name rang out, and her father drew back his sword, his arm shaking as he readied to swing. Her name was upon five tongues, then ten, then twenty, then half the clan, then the whole of it. She took in a deep breath and forced her stiff lips into a smile, thrust her fist into the air, and roared as she opened her eyes.  
Clan Shihiin waved swords and shook spears as they chanted her name. Segren and Ezud alone stared at her mute. Her father let his sword fall from his limp arm, now hanging at his side. His shoulders sank, he took a step back, but he did not turn to face her. No vision of his death appeared before her now, as miserable as he looked. Hamayedi was stunned, looking up to U-Lim who had appeared next to him. She tried to discern something in the posture of the shaman, but saw nothing. She put those two out of her mind and drew near her father.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t . . .” He said, nearly choking on the words.

“I know you’re tired. I’m going to carry the load from now on, father; you don’t have to worry any more,” she whispered in his ear. She did not see the look of horror on his face, or hear his fists clenching so tight his bones creaked.


	8. Chapter 8

Harrud stood mute, blinking at Hasimi for an agonizingly long moment. A hand slowly rose from his right side to scratch at his beard, freezing in place there. The same wife from the night before busied herself cooking something in a kettle further into the tent, but kept turning her ear towards them and letting her hands idle.

“He did not fight you for it?” he asked, finally.

“No. He tried to persuade our kin to keep supporting him, but when they chose me, he didn’t say anything more,” Hasimi said.

“Even if you are his daughter, to let such a thing pass is . . . The Narik Shihiin I knew truly is gone,” Harrud said, shaking his head and closing his eyes. He fell silent again, staring at nothing. “Very well,” he murmured to the air. “Clan Aydun will recognize you as chieftain of the Shihiin.”

Hasimi nodded and made to leave the tent, though her movements were stiff, slow.

“Considering this business with this ‘high chief,’ my clan will remain here until I’ve seen the truth of it for myself. Your people may—”

“No—that is—thank you,” Hasimi said, waving her hands through the air. “I will send . . . Ah, we will find our own place to stay.”

“There was much your father had yet to teach you about leading, I imagine,” Harrud said.

“I’ll just have to learn as I go,” Hasimi said.

“It seems so,” Harrud said. “But you have the character of a Rider, which he has lost. The rest will come with time, as long as you do not lead your people blind over a cliff.” He paused, unmoving, looking straight through her. He knit his brows, then gestured for her to sit. Hasimi took a step back, holding up her hands.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have time. Who knows when the High Chief is—”

“Tomorrow,” Harrud said. “That priestess told us after you fell ill last night. They said they would return then to invite us along. You, at least, should stay here to wait for them.”

“Then I have even less time than I thought. Thank you.” She turned even as she saw Harrud’s mouth open to speak further, taking a long stride out of the tent and into the camp. Though her kin were now milling about and talking to the Aydun clansfolk, her father was nowhere to be seen. Both Segren and Ezud stood apart from the rest of the Shihiin, speaking to one another and throwing brief glances at her. She took in a deep breath and walked towards them.

“Segren, Ezud.”

The two men responded at the same time, but not in unison.

“Hasimi.”

“Chieftain.”

Even as Segren called her by that title, he could not look straight at her, and his voice was strained in a way she had never heard when it addressed her father.

“Harrud has agreed to deal with me as the chieftain of our clan from now on,” she said. “It’s all settled.”

“I don’t like it,” Ezud said.

“Our kin have decided already,” Hasimi said.

“Maybe your father was getting soft, but he’s spent years trying to keep our stupid lot safe. What makes you fit to lead when all you’ve done is been another fighter on the field?” The older man spat on the ground. “I led folk into battle for years before your father brought me into the clan and I’ve seen plenty like you. You get a bit crafty with a spear and you think that makes you special?”

“Ezud, it’s too late,” Segren said. “It’s done.”

“Oh shut it, you’ve been nothing but a wrinkled wet-nurse to our chieftain’s babes for years. I’ve ridden with him all thistime and he’s still my chieftain.” Ezud took a step up to Hasimi, lips curling back to show his gritting teeth. “Not this jumped-up child.”

“You noticed it yourself, though,” Hasimi said, unflinching. “The way he talked and the things he did when we were punishing those Mikshan, you knew it wasn’t right. He’s not following the Rider’s way anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter what I know. He was the truest Rider there ever was since before you were born; I trust him to see things too big for me to see. You? What can you see beyond the tip of your own spear?”

Hasimi snickered and widened her salt-red eyes as much as she could. “I see enough. If you’re unhappy with the change in leadership, you can leave the clan just as you were brought into it. I don’t need a second with a hole in his shoulder anyway,” she said. She could see the tightening of the muscles throughout Ezud’s body, but after a brief growl he turned and stormed off.

“Please understand, he needs time to adjust,” Segren said, watching his friend’s back.

“And you?” Hasimi asked, letting her face relax. “Do you think I’ve done wrong by my father?”

“I have followed your father since we were young men,” Segren said. “I would follow him still. But your father has told me many times that he was hoping you would lead when he stepped down.” He smiled, but not at her, and with apparent effort.

“Where did he go?”

“After you went to speak to Harrud, he went to talk to U-Lim. Hamayedi is with them now. Shall I tell him you wish to sp—”

“No! Er, no,” Hasimi said. “Make the rounds and tell every Shihiin here to head into Yevalam, we’re putting up there for the night.”

“Will you be paying for the inns and stables?”

“What?”

“Your father usually paid for those things so none of our clan had to,” Segren said.

“I, uh . . .” Hasimi started counting on her fingers.

“Even he didn’t always pay for it. Don’t worry about it. Are you going into the city with us?”

“No, I have to wait for the High Chief’s people here.”

“What are they like?”

“What do you mean?”

“They must have made a strong impression on you, if you want to join up with them so badly,” Segren said, chuckling to himself. “You have been difficult to impress since you were a baby.” He opened his mouth, pursed his lips tight, and let the air out in a sigh, waving off her inquisitive look.

“They’re different from anyone I’ve ever seen; I’m not sure I can explain it,” Hasimi said. Even in her imagination she clearly saw that mist of many colors rising from Aveyir’s body, the way Elamash’s veil seemed to drip out from her skin.

“The woman is the priestess of something or other, she performed some spell and we could see one of their battles.”  
Segren’s face darkened for a moment.

“What is it?”

He took a deep breath in.

“Whatever your father says about your mother, I always thought it was wise that he didn’t get involved with the gods of the settled-folk. They’re not like the spirits you and I know.”

“I never took you for a superstitious man,” Hasimi said, smirking.

“Hah, no. Just that when I was a boy, I was a temple slave and,” his brows drew tight together though she could see him struggling to ease them. He turned over something in his mouth, shrugged. “Just be careful with that sort, chieftain. That’s all.”

“You worry too much. Go on.”

Segren bowed his head and went about addressing their clan. She felt a familiar pressure in her head and turned to see U-Lim approaching.

“I’m not interested in your opinion,” she said. “Not unless you’re going to tell me—”

“Shut up,” the shaman said, putting a hand over her mouth that she could not wrench away. Only when she stopped grasping at that immovable arm did he withdrew it.  “I am grateful that becoming chieftain has not increased your impertinence, but merely kept it level. In any case, I am not here to speak to your clan politics. There are things you ought to discuss with your father while you still—”

“I’m young, not stupid,” Hasimi said. “The moment I agree to speak to him, he’s going to try to talk me out of this.”  
Hasimi could swear she saw U-Lim’s metal mask contort with annoyance.

“It is difficult, of course, but try to extend your thoughts further than the tips of your own fingers, child. There are other things at stake which—”

“You have my answer, shaman, and my father knows my decision. I’m the chieftain of the Shihiin now, and that’s an end of it. If you want to have my ear the way you had my father’s, you know what you need to tell me.”

The shaman nodded. “Indeed. But you are, sadly, less ready for that knowledge now than you have ever been. I shall not trouble you again.”

The Shihiin mounted up and began riding down the hill road into Yevalam, cheering and hailing her as they passed, alive with an excitement much like the one they’d had at her victory the day before. She could not recall the last time before that her kin had been so lively. Even some of the Aydun they’d been speaking to moved with an unusual energy about their camp, bowed their heads to her when their eyes met. Segren returned to point out where he’d hitched her horse and asked if she needed anything else; he took Samulgian, at last calm after yesterday’s battle, and rode alongside Ezud.

Most of the day passed without incident or sight of her father. Hamayedi came to her as the sun was setting to ask what was happening, why she would do such a thing to their father. She assured him it was for the family’s sake, that he would understand when he was older. He asked her to speak to their father, told her that he had something important to tell her, but she refused. She ate with Harrud and Teygan, who had gathered his brother’s ashes into a clay pot and spoke wearily of returning home and taking up the plow. Harrud said nothing to contradict him, and as the night closed in, he was making ready his horse and supplies for the journey back to Aydun lands.

The next morning, Hasimi woke to the sound of hoofbeats—as many as she had heard when she’d first laid eyes upon the strangers from the heartlands. Her body reacted before her wits were mustered, and she was still unsure what she was looking at when she reached the hill road where it passed through camp. The steady stream of shapes before her eyes resolved to a procession of men and women on horseback, wearing many makes of armor, holding spears, bows, swords, axes, and even warhammers of all different shapes. Some wore feathered headdresses of the kind Daraz had, others wore the top halves of human skulls or wooden masks, or the pelts of wolves. Looking down the hill towards the city gates, she could see that they had been passing through the camp for some time; looking out across the plains, she could see the line of them stretching over bluffs without end.

Harrud stood a short distance from her, without his eldest son. Deep, dark circles had set in under his eyes, and he watched the army ride past as he might someone telling a story about it. Her brother and U-Lim stood nearby as well, her father already walking from them towards her.

“You were wrong, father. Look at this,” Hasimi said, cocking her head towards the procession. “This isn’t just another upstart. I’ve never seen this many Riders.”

“That was never my concern, Hasimi,” her father said. “Listen, I fear for you,” he said, resting his hands on his shoulders. “U-Lim and I have known this day would come for a while now, and when it did—”

“So you take the word of that shaman over mine when making decisions about my life?” Hasimi growled.

“I know you think that . . . that this place is holding you back. That I’m holding you back.”

Those words stung her ears and she shook her head. “No, father, it’s not that at all.”

“Please try to understand, I’ve only done what I could to keep you safe and happy. If you go with this High Chief, I can’t protect you anymore.”

“It’s okay, father, I’ve told you already: you don’t have to anymore. I’m strong enough to take care of myself, and you and Hama. That’s why I want to go. I want to see just how far my strength will take me.”

Her father’s shoulders sagged. “You’re too much like me when I was your age,” he said. “There really isn’t anything I can do to talk you out of this, is there.”

“You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to. Hamayedi can stay with you until he’s of age, and then—”

“No, I’m sending him away with U-Lim.”

“What?”

“I tried to tell you about it yesterday, but you wouldn’t meet with me. The three of us talked about what he wants. I’ve always known he had no love for riding or fighting, but U-Lim says he has a strong mind. He wants to study, but he didn’t want to leave the valley if you were still here.”

“But he is a Rider, he should—”

“He’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t have any of that in his heart. He’s more like U-Lim than he’s like any Rider. Me, I’m a Rider, that’s all I’ve ever been and it’s too late for me to change that. You’re one too, but you still have your whole life ahead of you to decide to be something more. If you told U-Lim you’d leave this all behind to study with him too, I know he’d take you in. The things you could learn—and you’d finally meet your mo—”

“Stop!” Hasimi shouted, her back stiffening as she felt many pairs of eyes turn to her. “Stop. I don’t want to be like U-Lim. I don’t want to be like mother; I don’t even know who she is. I want to be like you, father.”

Just then, she heard two horses at a full gallop coming closer from downhill; Aveyir and Elamash rode counter to the stream of their great clan, waving to those who hailed them.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Elamash said. “I hope this gives you some sense of how serious the High Chief is.”

“We’ve come to invite you along to meet her,” Aveyir said. “She has already entered the city at the head of the army and will speak to the clans soon. Are you all coming?” He looked from Harrud’s face, to U-Lim’s, to Hasimi’s, lingering last on Narik’s. "Erm, is this a bad time?"

“I’ll go get my horse,” Narik said.

“Father, wait, we’re not done,” Hasimi said, searching his face.

“Hamayedi’s decision is his own. But you have until tomorrow morning to say goodbye. Now like I said, I’ll go get my horse. I should at least know who I’m losing my daughter to.”

He, Hasimi, and Harrud mounted and rode behind the priestess and the general alongside the winding column of Riders, U-Lim waving them off as he walked after them with Hamayedi.

“I’m happy that you’ve decided to meet with the High Chief, she has wanted to meet you for a long time,” Aveyir said, smiling back at Narik. “Does this mean the Shihiin will join us?”

“That’s no longer my choice to make,” Narik said, pointing to Hasimi. “She’s chieftain now.”  
Aveyir’s eyes widened, but Elamash only giggled.

“Since when?”

“Since yesterday morning,” Hasimi said. Aveyir’s gaze flit between father and daughter; he looked disappointed, but put a smile back on as quickly as he could and settled on her.

“Then, chieftain, what do you think?”

“The clan—my clan—is ready to join the High Chief. Just as soon as I can see her for myself.”

“Excellent!” Aveyir began cheerily humming to himself.

“Not to be rude,” Elamash said, “But I heard you talking about ‘Hamayedi’ . . . is that your son’s name?”

“It is,” Narik said. “He won’t be going with you, though.”

“Is he the boy I saw with U-Lim just now?” the priestess said. “He seems a bright one.”

“He is. More cut out for learning than fighting,” Narik said, meeting Hasimi’s gaze unblinking.

“We both have sons who have forsaken their blood,” Harrud said from the rear of their group. “Teygan has gone home to bury his brother’s ashes, take a wife, and become a farmer. I do not understand it at all.”

“Our children are not us, old friend,” Narik said. Harrud grunted.

“Daraz was just like me,” the older man said. Narik arched a brow. “As I was in my youth.”

“But maybe other ways of living aren’t so bad,” Narik said. “Less dangerous, to be sure.”

“I just cannot understand it. You and I had to shed years of blood to have the freedom to ride, but my son would give it away to be a slave to the dirt.” Harrud looked to Aveyir and Hasimi, both nodding in turn.

“It’s a different choice, a different kind of freedom.” Narik stroked his horse’s mane slowly. “Some would say we’re slaves to our beasts, and to the old laws.”

“Huh!” Harrud looked away from Narik, upper lip twitching as though he’d just licked something disgusting. Hasimi could see Aveyir deflate further still.

“You certainly sound different from the other Riders I’ve met,” Elamash said, smiling. “But then, the High Chief is also quite different. Maybe she’ll light the fire in you again, as she has inspired so many others.”

They were then passing through the city gates, and down the main road they could see a crowd gathering near the center of the old marketplace. A ring of spearmen had formed around a wooden platform one head again the height of a man, four figures atop it. Hasimi focused her sight, and there came into focus two chain-mail clad men with the long beards Hasimi had heard were normal in the heartlands or the east. A slightly smaller figure in reddish-brown lamellar, face covered by a grimacing mask of some strange spirit, was between them; Hasimi guessed a woman from the way she stood. The strangest presence on that platform was the frail, elderly man who, though his posture was wholly upright, pushed hard against the head of his walking stick to keep it so. Some strange piece of metal sat across his nose and wrapped around the sides of his head, with a piece of glass fixed in front of each of his eyes. His skin had a copper tone to it that she had never seen or imagined before, and his bright green eyes were far wider than was right.

“Is that the man from the Silver . . . what was it again?” Hasimi asked.

“Silver River Kingdoms,” Elamash said, looking at her warmly. “So those eyes are sharp as well. You’re quite fortunate.”

“Well, this is where we part ways for now. We will be up there with our Chief,” Aveyir said. The spearmen hollered at the crowd to make room as they approached, waving them over. Aveyir and Elamash dismounted and were let past the ring, climbing up onto the platform. Harrud excused himself to find his kin in the crowd, and Hasimi looked about for her own; she saw familiar faces scattered about, nodding at her, but could not find Segren or Ezud. What she could see were countless Riders from every corner of the valley no matter how distant, gathered there in wide-eyed anticipation.

Amidst this gathering, the men ringed about the platform began to cheer, driving the butts of their spears into the ground. Soon this cheer was echoed by voices within the crowd. The Riders from the valley looked about them and realized, as the calls echoed up and down the main road, and seemingly throughout the whole of the city, that as many of them as there were, they were utterly lost in a sea of strangers. The uproar grew louder and louder until at once it fell silent; without Hasimi having noticed, another figure had climbed up onto the platform and stood front-and-center.

Unlike her generals behind her, she was unarmored, wearing only a plain tunic and leather riding pants. She was tall—taller than all but one of the men on the platform with her—and solidly built from head to toe. Her jaw was strong, lips full, face broad, her black hair falling halfway down her chest and back. Her body was deeply scarred in many places, and though the brown of her eyes was unremarkable, her gaze felt heavy. Hasimi felt it upon her head and shoulders even when she was clearly looking in a different direction. Most of all, she stood there as though she belonged, as though she owned the city.

“I am the High Chief of Riders,” she said, voice washing over the crowds. She grinned. “But you can call me Takou. I’ve come to the valley to ask your clans to join together under one banner.”

“What makes you think we’ll fight for you?” one woman shouted from the crowd.

“I’m not here looking for fighters,” Takou said. “I can get fighters anywhere, from any tribe. The Mikshan can give me fighters. No, I want hunters. See, the Great Hunt is out there, to the east,” she said, pointing whence the sun had risen. “Lenguts, The Silver River Kingdoms, Teshkuman and more. The empires that have always kept us Riders bottled up in the plains between them and the mountains, who have hunted us when they grew sick of fighting each other . . . Now it’s our turn to pay them back!”

Even the idle swaying and whispering in the crowd ceased, Hasimi could hear her father’s soft, steady breathing and no one else’s.

“Since I became chieftain of Clan Chuylug, I have fought, and fought, and fought. I have brought over a hundred clans under my banner, all over the heartlands and the east. Today I’ve brought twenty-five thousand Riders to this city, but I command over two-hundred thousand. With them, and with those old empires’ own weapons, we have already conquered five cities greater than Yevalam ever was. I am not asking you to gamble on a distant dream; I’m asking you to join together as Riders, one people, to continue a conquest that has already begun.”

Hasimi could again see the vision of the battle Elamash had shown her in the tent, Takou’s words somehow made it even more real than it had seemed to her eyes then. The fire she remembered seeing in her father’s eyes during her youth had never gone out, it had passed to this woman.

“That’s a lot of talk; maybe you easterners do a lot of talking.” A voice, haggard as a heavy drinker’s finally broke the silence. Though it had been a long time since she had seen him, Hasimi could not forget the face of Mad Heybal, chieftain of the Kudars, with his one bulging eye, the left side of his head bald, the right side dreaded. “But how should I believe you can bring down the big walls all those cities have? Even this city’s walls are mostly still up after all these years.”

“A fine question,” Takou said, turning to the old man. They exchanged a few quiet words, then Takou turned back to the crowd. “How about a demonstration? Loose!”

“Loose!” A voice well down the main road responded. Another voice echoed the call, and another barely audible and entirely indistinct.

“Now,” the old man said, voice creaking like stressed wood. Takou pointed a single finger straight overhead, and at just that moment, a great black stone, uncannily round, appeared from over the western wall of the city, arcing through the sky at terrible speed until it smashed into a tower only a few streets south of where they stood, shattering everything above where it struck, engulfing the falling stone in a cloud of dust that spilled out onto the streets and rolled out until it wrapped about their knees.

Stunned silence, but for Mad Heybal, who grunted. “You didn’t have to get dirt on my boots.”

“Thanks to our Master Builder,” Takou said, nodding to the old man, “We have made several weapons like this, and already used them against cities larger than any you’ve ever seen. The more we conquer, the more builders we can take prisoner, the more and better we can build. Our army is only getting stronger. Join me, and I’ll lead you to glory unlike anything Riders have ever seen.” She took a step back from the edge of the platform, and Hasimi was certain she was looking straight at her. “Or refuse; stay safe here, fighting petty battles between clans over the settled-folk’s scraps. And one day, when you’re dying in bed, with your head full of stories of all your cousins who came with me, you’ll want this moment back.”

The crowd did not remain silent for long.

“I am Shem-Hishem Nangur. My clan is yours,” one chieftain said, her people cheering.

“Heybal of Kudars and his kin will follow you,” Mad Heybal said, now two clans in uproar.

Egreth, Mazhuk, Sassou, Halaram; one by one the chieftains came forward to pledge themselves to Takou, even Harrud’s voice joined them. After a silence, Hasimi realized that only her people remained.

“I am Hasimi Shihiin, and I pledge my kin to your cause.” The whole of the square now was erupting in cheers, the valley together as one. Takou arched a brow.

“Is Narik not chieftain of the Shihiin?” she asked.

“He is not. I am his daughter, my people have chosen me.” Hasimi saw her father dismounting from the corner of her eye and froze. “Father, what are you doing?” she whispered. He sighed and patted her knee.

“I love you, my daughter.”

Hasimi blinked, turning as she heard Takou speaking again.

“I had hoped to meet the hero of the uprising, but so be it, I accept all of your pledges. Tonight, we shall seal them.”

“You may meet me now,” Narik shouted, drawing all eyes to him. At a word from Aveyir, the spearmen nearest them let him pass closer to the platform. “I am no longer a chieftain or a hero, but I am still Narik Shihiin.”

Takou hopped down from the platform, sending a plume of the still-lingering dust up as she did, and strode towards him with a hand outstretched. He accepted and stood looking up at her. Though Hasimi could only see his back, she knew from the set of his shoulders and the straightness of his gait that he was thinking something wild.

“You were a great inspiration to me from the beginning, Ha-Shihiin. You honor me,” she said.

“Then let me honor you again. Menar. I challenge you for the title of High Chief.”


	9. Book I, Chapter 9

Yevalam fell still, silent. Narik’s hand was firmly clasped around Takou’s, their eyes locked; both breathed easily and kept casual smiles though nobody else was breathing.

“Father, wh—” Hasimi began. At a look from Takou, she felt her voice pushed back down into her throat as though by a rough hand. The high chief leaned forward slightly, her lips to Narik’s ear.

“I hope you’ll let me pretend I didn’t hear that, so that I may let you walk away with your head,” she said. 

“Everyone heard it. It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” Narik replied.

“Nobody here remembers the old language, do they? ‘Menar’ means nothing, you can play the rest off like a bad joke that I’ll forgive.”

The words were so clear to Hasimi that it took a moment for her to realize they had been whispering to one another. Takou withdrew to her full height and squeezed Narik’s hand tighter, and still the crowd did not comprehend. Every horrid vision Hasimi had seen of her father’s death gained form before her eyes in that moment, and she felt her heart plummet into her stomach.

“Do you accept my challenge?” he said, shouting now such that it rang out against the walls of the looming ruin.

“You do not want this, Ha-Shihiin,” Takou said, voice hard as stone.

“I don’t have a choice. This is the only way to protect my daughter from you,” he said, releasing Takou’s hand. Takou’s spearmen had already encircled him, pointing their iron towards him. Takou raised a hand sharply, and the men took a step back, standing their spears. She wore the faintest hint of a smile and reached behind to unsheathe the longsword across her back. Though it was nearly the length of a short staff, she held it single-handed with an almost delicate grip.

“I’ll respect your determination, then,” she said.

“Wait, High Chief, you don’t have to do this.” Hasimi’s mouth was open, but those words did not come from her; they came from Aveyir, who had walked to the edge of the platform, looking as though he’d gotten lost in a snowdrift. “He is no longer a chieftain, he has no claim. Narik, if you apologize—”

“He has invoked ‘menar.’ He knows that the High Chief may be challenged by anyone willing to lay their life on the line.” Takou said. By now, the city had returned to life with a rising hum as Riders from the valley and afar both whispered and murmured to one another.

“Poor Narik,” Hasimi heard a nearby woman say, “He’s gone soft in the head.”

“No, he can do it if anyone can,” a man replied.

“I’ve heard he’s turned into a coward, always running away from fights. Maybe it’s best if the High Chief put him down,” the woman said, casting a sidelong glance at Hasimi as though she could not hear them.

"Would you make me a coward, Aveyir?" Takou asked, arching a brow.

“No, High Chief, I would never,” Aveyir said, bowing his head.

“Good. Besides, I’ve often wondered how I measure up to the legendary Narik Shihiin,” Takou said, showing a toothy grin. “I accept your challenge!” she shouted. Her men set about pressing the crowd back to make more room before the platform, and the humming swelled to a roar.

Hasimi let her horse be pushed back as she sat mute; she looked about but saw neither U-Lim nor Hamayedi, neither Segren nor Ezud. Nobody moved to stop her father as he drew his own bronze swords and assumed an almost languorous stance.

“Aveyir, since you’re down here, you will preside,” Takou said, looking just as relaxed as her father. At that moment, Hasimi saw a mist rise from the High Chief’s body—the same vapor of shifting colors she could see about Aveyir and, she realized, all of her generals.

“Yes, of course,” the Chuylug man said, eyes flitting to the ground even as he called out to the whole city. “Menar! Narik Shihiin and Takou will fight to the death for the title of High Chief.”

Both of them moved like rushing rivers towards one another, whipping into lines of sheer power, breaking against each others’ blades, retreating back to their before the currents drew them together. The sounds of metal against metal rang across the air straight into her bones, and Hasimi realized that for the first time in her life, she could see the lines of her father’s movements before he made them.

He was not slow, nor even slower than she had last seen. He still fought with the same playful looseness she’d admired since her childhood, but where once she had seen only a blur, now she saw him as clearly as a downhill stream. His experience and strength showed in every move he chose to make, and he looked utterly overwhelmed by the woman before him.

Takou’s movements started as fast as his own, and got faster and faster as though she was waking up from a dull morning. She first read, then dictated Narik’s movements to him, turning every blow with such force that he had fewer and fewer options. Before long, she had struck both swords from his hands, and his fingers and wrists shook with the ache. The high chief raised her sword to finish the job, but Narik charged into her chest and struck the pommel upward with his palm, throwing her off-balance.

She regained her footing even as he wrapped hands about her shoulder and thigh; dropping her hips and her sword, she met him the grapple. Whatever surprise Narik had seized was gone after a moment of struggling about each other; she took his back, threw him to the ground, rolled away and reclaimed her sword in one continuous motion. 

Hasimi watched her father scrambling up onto his knees when Takou bore down at him with a thrust; he was reaching for one of his one short swords nearby—Takou had not noticed—amidst a hundred images of his death, she saw one shadow wherein he lunged forward into her attack; the longsword would gouge his side, but his blade would open her throat. The image grew more and more real until their blades both found blood.

That image was gone.

Takou’s longsword had found its way shallow into Narik’s left side, but the High Chief herself had swayed back and brought a hand to cover her throat, and had caught the blade there. Blood dripped from her hand as she wrapped her fingers tightly around the bronze and wrenched it from his grip, throwing it aside. She drew her blade out of Narik’s side quickly, letting him double over in pain.

“Not bad,” she said, laughing as she looked at the gash across her hand. “I haven’t been cut in single combat in a long time; you really are as good as the stories. I wish I could have fought you when you were young.” Casually, she lifted her sword and laid the flat of it upon his shoulder, the blade just kissing his neck. “Are you ready?”

“Damn it,” was all Narik could muster, clutching at his side. Takou frowned for a moment, but nodded and raised the blade up with both hands. Hasimi knew she was not the only one who could see its path now, and what lay at the end of it. The High Chief tightened her grip and brought the blade whistling down and across the air for his neck.

Hasimi was suddenly face-to-face with Takou, her short swords in her hands, resisting the weight of the longsword against them, her blood and skin both on fire, the image of the world before her blurred by something. The High Chief’s eyes were wide, but her stance did not change. Behind her, she could hear her father gasp, try to make it to his feet, and groan as his wound kept him on the ground.

“Get out of the way, Hasimi, this is my fight!” he growled.

“Father,” was all Hasimi could offer in reply. She heard her own voice as though it belonged to someone else; a small girl, shaking, afraid. The mist she saw about Takou began to swirl violently, and the weight of her longsword seemed at once to double. Hasimi stiffened every muscle in her body, yet still found herself bending. The moment her knee touched the flagstone, the weight lifted from her, and Takou relaxed her grip on her sword, though it still rest against Hasimi’s blades, just over her head. She stood as though waiting for something, throwing a sharp glance at Aveyir.

“A-ah, menar has been violated,” Aveyir shouted, looking past Hasimi at the crumpled form of her father. “Narik Shihiin and Hasimi Shihiin have forfeit their lives and honor.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Takou said, withdrawing her sword and taking Hasimi by the hand, pulling her onto her feet. She surveyed the gathered crowd. “My honor is satisfied that everyone here understands the order of things. I will let Narik Shihiin live, out of respect for Hasimi’s strength and love for her father.”

She grinned at Hasimi. “But there are two conditions. The first is that you and your clan belong to me until the day you die. When you sleep, when you eat, when you piss, when you fight, and when you die are my choice alone. This you have already promised me.”

Hasimi heard her father trying to hold back his sobbing behind her; she swallowed the hard lump in her throat.

“The second is that Narik Shihiin go into exile, and never set foot in my lands or hold a sword again. If he does either of these things, I will personally kill him, as surely as I could have just now.”

A fist was weakly rapping on stone, Ezud’s voice shouted at the spearmen to let him through, to let him see his chieftain. Takou studied Hasimi’s face.

“Seems as though you have no objections,” she murmured. She nodded at someone over Hasimi’s shoulder and pointed to Narik. “Take him away. I shall see to his exile later.”

Even as the spearmen hoisted her father up and carried him away, she did not turn to look.

“Well, since I’m already in the mood, is there anyone else who cares to challenge me?” Takou shouted, to the horror of Aveyir and the laughter of Elamash and one of the other generals. No one stepped forward, but many stepped further back, hoping to disappear into the crowd. “Then we’re all clear on who commands your loyalty. Chieftains, I give you until sunset to get your clans preparing to ride for the heartlands, where we will meet up with my main force. Tonight, we will make our oaths to each other. That is all.”

Hasimi was again reminded of just who this woman walking past her was when the whole of the crowd roiled as her followers pushed past to form lines and part the great mass of Riders and Mikshan alike. Takou led the way down the road east across the city, followed by Elamash, her generals, and the old man last of all. He paused after reaching the bottom step from the platform, looking over his shoulder at Hasimi and scratching his cheek with a bony hand. He seemed to be murmuring something to himself, but turned away and followed after the others.

Many Riders immediately mustered with their clans and took to the parts of the city they knew best, or made for the road out to whatever small camp they had set up nearby. The members of Clan Shihiin gathered around Hasimi one by one, but she hardly noticed herself speaking with them, ordering them back to the inns. Only when U-Lim emerged from the crowd with her younger brother in tow did life regain some semblance of reality.

“Where were you in the crowd? Could you see what happened?”

“We saw enough,” U-Lim said, inclining his head down to Hamayedi. The boy’s eyes were reddened, still glistening, hands shaking slightly though he hid them behind his back. Hasimi squatted down before him and reached past to take his hands into hers.

“Hama, I tried to . . .”

“Thank you, sister,” he said, wrenching his hands free and throwing his arms around her. “You saved father’s life!”  
Hasimi drew back, brow furrowed.

“No, I sullied his honor by interfering. He will probably never look me in the eye again,” Hasimi said, biting her lip.

“Would you want him to, I wonder?” U-Lim said.

Hasimi glared at him, but said nothing.

“You should leave with us,” Hamayedi said. “You and I can go wherever they send father. U-Lim can take us there and—”

“I’m the chieftain now, Hama, I’m sorry. If I left with you, what would happen to our clan? There’s no one else to keep our kin together,” Hasimi said.

“How very noble of you,” U-Lim said. “I shall be taking Hamayedi with me shortly, then.” The eyeless sockets of the mask bore into Hasimi’s skull; she looked at her brother and nodded.

“Fine. He’s not cut out to be a Rider. But where will you take him?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” the shaman said. “But I can promise that you will see each other again, and that he will prosper.”

“Sister, please, just come with us. I don’t want you and father to go away,” Hamayedi said, again on the verge of tears.

Hasimi wrapped her arms around the boy and brought him towards her, cradling his head, kissing the top of it and stroking his short brown hair for the first time in years. She looked up at U-Lim as her brother sobbed into her shoulder.

“Did you know that my father would do that?”

“We discussed it at length. I warned him of the likely outcome, and he had resigned himself to it,” U-Lim said.

“If I hadn’t gotten in the way, he would have died,” Hasimi said, gritting her teeth. “You knew he would and you didn’t stop him.”

“You might have known too, if you’d actually heeded a word from his mouth the past few years. But, yes. I did not try to dissuade him.”

“But I saved his life,” Hasimi said.

“And yet you sound disappointed.”

Hasimi immediately looked back to the ground. She closed her eyes and turned her mind to the feeling of her brother’s small body in her arms.

“This is goodbye for now, Hama. We’ll see each other again, though. You and I will see father together, I promise.” He gripped at her back tighter and tighter, buried his face harder into her shoulder. “Stay happy, stay safe,” she said. “And make sure to grow a bit, huh?”

Hamayedi laughed in spite of himself, smiling through his tears as Hasimi stood. He stepped back until he brushed against U-Lim, and though the shaman led him away, he fixed his gaze on his sister until they melted into the bustling streets.


	10. Book I, Chapter 10

Hasimi found near half her kin waiting in a single inn near the center of Yevalam, shouting at one another to the annoyance of Segren and the fear of the innkeeper and his family. Her father’s name was being thrown about, the words ‘insult,’ or ‘disgrace,’ never far behind. She stood in the doorway without making herself known, watching for a moment.

“This upstart did wrong by Narik.” Shohar, a woman near the same age as Hasimi’s father, took a deep draught of ale and waved her cup about. “Beating him and stabbing him through the gut proved her point enough; everything he did for kids like her, she should let him stay here, with his kin.”

A few voices hollered assent, others growled against. Dajian, five years Hasimi’s senior, shook his head.

“The old chieftain knew what he was doing; what kind of High Chief would let him off the hook? Nothing against Narik, but his time was over anyway,” he said.

“She should have just given him a clean death,” said Bayam, a fire-haired man not much younger than Segren. He was stocky and hard-faced, skin like worn leather and a voice that dragged words along a dry creek bed. “Exiling him is an insult; she wants him to live with the shame, beaten and weak.” He carried on rumbling to himself, drumming his heavy fingers on the table before him.

“Chieftain,” Segren said loudly, drawing all eyes to Hasimi. The others who were raising their voices to respond fell silent.

“My father was a good chieftain for years, and a hero to all Riders, it’s true,” Hasimi said. “He was those things. He should have known not to . . . there’s no point in arguing about it, all right? We move on, like we always have,” Hasimi said. After a momentary silence, they resumed their drinking and talking, and she took Segren aside towards the back of the room, past a greatly relieved innkeeper.

“Where is your brother?” Segren whispered.

“Hamayedi is . . . with the shaman,” Hasimi said. “They had already agreed to certain plans with my father. He’ll be safe.”

Segren let out a sigh of relief, though his eyes glimmered with concern for her. 

“Have you heard anything about where the High Chief’s forces are actually camping? There are too many for all the inns in the city,” Hasimi asked.

“They’ve set up their yurts about a mile northeast of the city walls. They say there are thousands of them.” Segren looked past her shoulder, dropped a step further into their corner of the room. “I caught Ezud on the way there, he’s going to try to see your father.”

“Good luck to him,” Hasimi said, folding her arms over her chest. She could see the old man had more to say, but was turning it over in his mouth, displeased at the taste. “Well? What is it?”

“He says he is going to leave the clan and go with your father. He never swore an oath to you, just to Narik, and . . . Well.” Segren’s expression grew distant.

A small ember burned in Hasimi’s head for just a moment, then turned to smoke as she found herself laughing. Segren was wide-eyed, watching their kin turn to look at her shaking back. She could feel their stares scraping into her, but the laughter was the only thing keeping her eyes dry. When it had all spilled out of her, she turned with a wide grin—enough for her kin, it seemed, as they returned to their own conversations.

“Chieftain?” Segren asked.

“I don’t even know what’s going on anymore,” Hasimi whispered through her smile. “This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go. I wanted to protect my father, that’s why I took over. Ezud doesn’t understand that. Even my father doesn’t understand it. But you do, don’t you?”

“I understand that that’s what you intended.”

“But you don’t think it was the right thing to do.”

“I am not the chieftain, it’s not my decision to make.”

“Segren.”

The old man sighed. “I think the results speak for themselves. I think how you see Narik is not the whole truth.”

Hasimi nodded. “I thought he was invincible. Even when he started talking about strange things and avoiding fights with other clans, I thought . . .”

She paused and looked around at the others. Though they were her own blood, their presence pressed upon her from all sides, crushing her into that corner with Segren.

“Hey, I want the lot of you to finish your drinks, pack up your things, fetch your horses from the stables, and get over to the High Chief’s camp to wait for the oath-taking. There were cheers mixed in with a few half-drunk grunts, and the scraping of worn wooden chairs against worn wooden floors. She singled out two of her distant cousins and told them to make the rounds gathering the rest of their kin and passing along the order. When they had all started spilling through the door out into the street, she sighed.

“All right, they're gone. What should I do?”

The older man managed to stifle a hearty laugh into a weak snicker, but his shoulders still shook. “That’s certainly a broader question than your father usually asks.”

“I’m not—” Hasimi caught her voice rising, bit her lip, and took a deep breath. “Nobody has taught me how to do this. He didn’t have time to.”

Segren looked at her thoughtfully, and put a hand on her shoulder. “I am happy to advise you, but you are the chieftain now, and at the end of the day it is your decision that our kin have chosen to follow. That means you have a responsibility to make the choices and stand by them.”

“Yes, I know. I know,” she said, not meeting his eyes. His hand fell away from her.

“Well, the first thing I would ask you is if you’ve thought about what you want to do with the home camp.”

Her eyes shot wide open as she remembered the tents of the elderly, the sick, the weak, the children.

“Ah, the home camp, I . . . yes, that . . .”

“I don’t think the High Chief is going to want each clan to bring its home camp along with the army,” Segren said.

“Why not?”

“If she’s serious about bringing the clans together and expanding, someone has to stay behind to hold the lands she already has. If she doesn’t, the settled folk are going to rebuild their cities and raise new armies, and before you know it—”

“Enemies on every side,” Hasimi murmured.

“Yes. I think, even if most of the best fighters are with her army, leaving the home camps here in the valley lets everyone know that we haven’t abandoned this place,” Segren said.

“O-oh, that makes sense,” Hasimi said, embarrassed by her own uncertainty. She frowned, leaning against the wall behind her. “Segren, I—”

“It is too late for regrets, chieftain. You’ve made your choices, your father made his. If you start to regret it now, it will all have been for nothing. Nobody wants that,” the old man said. It was the first time Hasimi could recall hearing any hardness in his voice, but it put strength in her back and she felt her breathing ease.

“W-well, if the home camp needs to stay here, we’ll need someone to stay in charge of it who can keep everyone trained and moving,” she said, finally looking him in the eyes. “I can’t think of anyone better than you, Segren. I’ll miss your advice, but you’re the only one I know I can trust with everyone’s lives after all you’ve done for Hama and I.”

Segren nodded. “I understand, chieftain. I’ll ride back to camp and tell them what has transpired over the last few days. Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll understand. That being said, I hope you will try to find someone you can take into your confidence while you’re on campaign. Riders thrive together, we die alone.”

He paused, looking at her intently for a moment more, then turned to gather his things. Hasimi left the inn and made her way out of the city to the northeast, rounding a high bluff before the High Chief’s camp came in sight.

She could hardly believe her eyes; there were far too many tents for her to count, stretching out towards the horizon in every direction, sprawling out like a city of its own just outside Yevalam’s walls. The stream of Riders pouring into it was several men wide and seemed to spill out well beyond the dirt roads; she dared not try to count how many were actually in the camp already. She heard the tongues of many clans being spoken; some she knew from the valley, others were the strange, barely intelligible dialects of the far southern edges of her known world; still others were entirely new to her ears; clearly the words of the heartlanders, she thought. For all the attention she had drawn to herself not long before in interfering with her father’s duel, she was just another face in the crowd now, and others muscled past her with varying urgency, talked as though they were about to go on some wild adventure.

She saw the figure of Elamash parting the crowd towards her, men and women alike stepping aside at the sight of her. The woman bowed her head and smile benignly as she drew near, reaching out to clasp Hasimi’s hands in her own.

“It is good to see you again so soon,” she said. “Great Kulsoun told me that you would be coming now, and urged me to meet with you.”

Hasimi studied her face; it told nothing but that she noticed the scrutiny.

“You are, perhaps, surprised to be welcomed here? You imagine that what happened earlier with your father is a problem.” Elamash said.

“Isn’t it?”

“On the contrary, you’ve managed to quite impress the High Chief, as she told you before.”

“Impress? I thought she was just saying those things, you know,” Hasimi nodded to the throng of humanity rushing past them. “For them to hear.”

“No, no. That is not her way,” Elamash said. “She only says a thing if she truly means it. You moved her with both your loyalty to your father and your strength. I admit I was just as impressed watching it, even if I could not feel it as she did.You will probably rise very quickly in the ranks here.”

Hasimi arched a brow. 

“It’s true! The High Chief rewards those who show their valor, which you certainly did. We have many strong warriors in our midst, but very few could hold back the High Chief herself. She would, of course, fight the hardest battles herself every time if she could, but there is only one of her. Perhaps you will be able to lighten the load?”

Hasimi looked around. “I . . . have never seen so many people.”

“Does it make you feel small?” Elamash said, looking sidelong at the crowd herself. She nodded when Hasimi did not respond. “Perhaps that, in and of itself, makes this worthwhile. Sometimes we need the gods to remind us how insignificant any of us are on our own.”

“What will become of our clans, though? Riders follow their own, and all this feels foreign,” Hasimi said.

“Yes, I’ve been told that especially Riders of the valley are . . . shall we say inward-looking,” Elamash said. “It is, perhaps, a bit surprising to you, but my people also prefer to stay within the bounds of our own tribes, and the same little corners of the world we were born in. My people hated Mikshan rule as much as yours did because we could not understand people who placed so little value on family and who used numbers to walk over others. You are not the first to wonder how this horde of many clans is much different.”

Elamash took her gently by the arm and led her further along the road.

“The Mikshan did not care whether their people had any ties to one another, only that they submitted to their kings. Those who had power used those who didn’t to chase their whims; that is why their nation rotted from within and grew weak enough for the uprising to happen. But the High Chief is working towards a shared will that all free peoples can understand.” She spoke softly, as though it was a secret. “You will see why my goddess chose her when you have come to know her better.”

Hasimi felt a warmth welling up inside her chest looking around the camp, seeing so many of her people at peace together for the first time in her life.

“By the by, where is U-Lim?” the priestess asked.

“The shaman is leaving. He is taking my brother somewhere far away, and intends to teach him . . . I don’t know what.”

“And how do you feel, losing both your father and brother on the same day? The High Chief is pleased with you, but I wonder if you will not grow to resent her for what has happened.”

“My father and brother both chose these things, as I have chosen to be here,” Hasimi said. “A Rider has that freedom, and it isn’t anyone’s place to tell them otherwise. My father taught me that a long time ago, even if he has forgotten it now.”

Elamash nodded. “Well, in any case, I am glad to hear that U-Lim is leaving. It seems that your family has been close to him, but I cannot bring myself to trust him. He is an odd man and seems to think himself above the very gods.”

Hasimi smiled faintly. “It’s a relief to know that I’m not the only one who dislikes him.”

They came to a halt and stood in a laden silence, though Hasimi knew what the next words from the priestess’s lips would be before they began to move.

“Would you like to see your father before he is sent away?” Elamash asked.

“I . . . don’t know. We—”

“I do not presume to tell a chieftain what to do, but as a priestess I have spent years listening to the pleas of wounded hearts. I would offer that if you do not at least see him now, you will likely carry some regret with you for the rest of your life.”

There was nothing strange or forceful in her voice just then, there was nothing menacing in the veil or dress that wrapped about her body. The words fell gentle upon Hasimi’s ears, and with a sharp inhalation she let the priestess lead the way through the throng. They passed countless tents and circles of gathered Riders before arriving at a small, shabbily-made tent where a familiar voice was roaring at two women standing guard.

“Who are you to show up here and claim such a title anyway, the valley doesn’t know any—”

“Ezud, is it?” Elamash said. “Still pleading your case?”

Ezud spun about to face the priestess, saw Hasimi and grit his teeth.

“What are you doing here? Have you come to spit on your father one last time before he goes, you ungrateful little shit?”

“Peace, Rider. You will not speak that way to a warrior of the High Chief in her own camp,” Elamash said, steel intent wrapped up in the silk of her tones. She turned to each of the guards with a nod. “We are here to see the prisoner, but do not let this man through.”

“Wait,” Hasimi said, looking just to the side of Ezud’s head, unable to meet his gaze directly. “He has fought with my father since before I was born. I . . . I think he should be allowed to see him one last time. I will make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Elamash paused, pursing her lips, then gestured for Ezud to proceed into the tent. “I hope you appreciate the generosity that Hasimi has just shown you. By no means are you entitled to this.”

Ezud grit his teeth, looked from one woman to the other, then stomped his way through the opening of the tent ahead of them. Hasimi followed, her breath catching in her throat as she saw her father chained to the centerpost of the tent, his clothes stripped away, his side heavily bandaged. The linen wraps were already soaked through with blood where the wound had been, his skin pale. His breathing was slightly labored, but he was not struggling against his bonds.

She knew his body had not changed in the last few days, but he somehow seemed much smaller to her now. He slowly lifted his head as he heard their footsteps, mind dragging further behind until finally he saw his daughter’s face.  
His mouth hung open, but he furrowed his brow and shut his eyes tightly. Hasimi saw images of their past as she looked at his beaten form; scenes from her childhood when her father could still easily carry her across his shoulders or cradle her in his arms. At first, these visions were as clear to her as they had ever been; she could even hear her laughter, his voice. Yet, as the moments passed, the color faded from them, and they lost their form as though both she and her father were turning to dust and blowing away in the breeze. She bent all of her will towards him, but as she looked at him then, she could see nothing in his future at all.

A rustling behind them surprised her, and she turned to see Aveyir, eyes wide at what he saw.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I did not know that you—”

“I invited her to speak with her father one last time,” Elamash said. Aveyir blinked, rooted to where we stood.

“Where will you send him?” Hasimi asked, looking back to her father whose head now drooped down, chin against his chest.

“We are going to take him out to the pass that separates the plains from the Herij Desert. We will leave him just on the other side of a gate we’re building,” Aveyir said. His face darkened as he stole a glance at Narik. “He should be able to find the peace he seeks.”

“In death, you mean,” Ezud grumbled. “You may as well kill him now rather than drag it out by sending him to some desert.”

“You have never been south of the plains, have you?” Elamash asked. “Do not misunderstand. There are oases and wells all along the northern edge of it, and towns built around these. Even if he should choose to wander the sands, there are great tribes of nomads who’ve made livings there for thousands of years. Some say they have finer horses than here.”

“It is the best anyone could hope for, in the circumstances. I never imagined he would challenge Takou like that; I’d hoped he would join us . . . I am sorry, Ha-Shihiin.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Narik said, voice strained and dry. Ezud scrambled about for water, found and filled a dish and forced him to drink at length. He coughed, wincing as it tugged on his wound. “Years ago, I was almost the High Chief myself. Now I’m just an old man who’s too weak to save his daughter and too dumb to be anything but a Rider. I’m no good to anyone like this.”

Hasimi heard Aveyir suck in a sharp breath through his teeth, guessed he was trying to hold back a sickly feeling in his stomach, the same way she was. He turned and left without a word, gesturing for Elamash to follow her. Only the three Shihiin remained in the tent. Ezud knelt near her father as though waiting for his chieftain to rise again and command him.

“Look at what they did to you,” Ezud said. “You’ve given everything for us and this is how they thank you.”

“Heh, that’s all right,” Narik said. “I had my time, chased my own dreams. Now that’s done. It’s better I just go into the desert”

“You won’t be alone,” Ezud said. “I’m going with you.”

Narik’s eyelids drooped; he shook his head trying to fight off sleep.

“No, you have to stay. Help Hasimi,” he said.

Hasimi’s spine stiffened.

“She’s not my chieftain, you are,” Ezud said.

“Please. I couldn’t teach her enough, it’s my fault.”

“Narik, you can’t—”

“Please!” He leaned forward, groaning and falling back against the post as a spasm of pain wrung the strength from his body. “Promise me.”

Ezud looked over his shoulder at Hasimi, fingers gripping at his own legs so hard they looked as though they would tear pieces away from the bone.

“I promise,” he said, burning eyes fixing Hasimi’s own. “For your sake, not hers.”

A smile came over her father’s face as he drifted off, Hasimi unable to speak. She followed Ezud as he rose from her father’s side and walked over to her, stopping shoulder-to-shoulder with her.

“Everything you’ve done to the man, and still all he thinks about is you. You think he’s gone soft? Well who was it that took the freest man I’ve ever known and cut the heart out of him?” Ezud said, whispers verging on hisses. “I’m wasting my breath; you know that already, you just don’t care. You can’t see past the tip of your own sword.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her about to face him, stood at his full height, a mask of hate bearing down upon her.

“Or maybe it’s not that you’re a stupid child,” His eyes peered dead into her own, his upper lip curling back over his teeth and gums. He let loose a rancid breath right against her nose. “Maybe you really are a witch. Maybe you are cursing everything you see with those eyes, destroying it all for your own amusement, eh? I’m staying because a good man asked me to, but if you dishonor him again, I’ll forget you’re kin and gut you myself.”

He left the tent without waiting, sucking out all the heat and life as he went, leaving Hasimi alone to watch the rhythmic, shallow breathing of her sleeping father. She could hardly see him at all, anymore.


	11. Book I, Chapter 11

The sun was already beginning to set when Hasimi managed to leave the tent; she wandered through the camp in the mounting darkness, occasionally seeing a face she knew, including other chieftains from the valley. Their eyes were distant, unfocused, as though not ready to see what was before them. The High Chief’s followers either stood in total ease or moved with purpose and discipline. Here and there, she could see men and women in rows, spears in hand, responding to the shouts of someone stood in front of them with thrusts, guards, slashes. Their movements came in unison, backed by full-throated shouts; she was not the only one lingering over the sight.

“I guess the heartlanders are very fancy now,” Mad Heybal grumbled. “Don’t like it. Do not. No.”  
Hasimi could tell he was looking at her, but said nothing.

“I once killed a Mikshan by throwing a sharp rock straight into his eye. Killed his friend, too. Dug the rock out his eye and rammed it up the other bastard’s ass. Think they learn that in their fancy dance?”

Hasimi snickered. “They’re not Mad Heybal, though.”

“Damn right!” He grinned, many of his teeth missing or rotten. “Guess I need to teach them all a little bit of . . .” He made several vague hand gestures as his words trailed off into babbling. Even so, he stood watching their ‘fancy dance’ just as long as she did. Only when Aveyir came around saying that the High Chief was ready to receive their oaths did they walk away.

Hasimi let herself be led towards a large tent made of the furs of many different beasts, with thick ropes wrapped around the top, meeting in knots of many colors every few hand-spans. When she stepped inside, she saw the chieftains of every single valley clan gathered around small fires, already drinking and chatting, ripping pieces off the sides of meat roasting over each flame, taking bread and cheese from wooden dishes as the young boys and girls carrying them walked by. Mingling in with them were others she could not recognize, but guessed were chieftains who were already in Takou’s service. Furthest back from the opening was a long table where sat Takou and her advisors.

The High Chief raised a cup to Hasimi and Heybal when she saw them, and nodded to Aveyir, beckoning him over.  
“Please, sit anywhere you like,” he said, bowing and making for his place at Takou’s side. Mad Heybal needed no prompting, and had already gone straight towards a group tending to a thick slab of ox belly. He called out to the chieftains there; they returned nods and cheers. Hasimi looked about and saw very few familiar faces, and none that were friendly. She caught sight of Harrud in the distance, and quietly worked her way over to that fire. She was welcomed only by grunts, and she ate and drank silently, listening to Harrud and the others tell old stories and share recent glories, ignoring her entirely.

After a time, she noticed Harrud fix on where Takou was seated and turned to find that the High Chief had stood up, a short knife in hand, and that the serving boys and girls were rushing to refill everyone’s wine.

“I am honored to have you here, chieftains. The Riders could not hope to be at their best if we did not have the support of the valley clans. You have all come here promising to swear oaths to me, but first let me swear to all of you,” Takou said. “Your enemies shall be my enemies. Your friends shall be my friends. The spirits that watch over my kin shall watch over you as well. If you pledge me your spears, I will lead you to glory, and your children and their children after them will be masters of the world. All this I swear by my blood.”

With that, she drew the knife across the palm of her hand, letting a few droplets of blood splash into her awaiting cup, then drinking it dry.

“Damn good!” she said, letting out a satisfied sigh and slamming the cup back down. “Now it’s your turn. Do you chieftains of the valley swear to serve me, to obey my commands and those of my generals in battle? Do you swear that you will fight for me from this day until your last day?”

Hasimi flinched as the chieftains all stood up around her, drawing their own knives, swords, axes, and slicing open their palms as Takou had, bleeding into their wine before taking up the cups. She scrambled to her feet, and was barely cutting her palm open when they shouted their oaths and took their drinks. She frowned at the way her cut hand trembled with the pain—something she had not felt for a long enough time that she had forgotten it.

Takou motioned for them to be seated again, grinning.

“I accept your oaths. Tomorrow, we will speak of plans for the war to come. But for tonight, let’s keep the feast going, let’s have some songs!” A cheer went up throughout the tent, and as Takou herself sat, someone indeed started to sing; before long it had spread to every fire under the tent. Still, no one spoke to Hasimi, or seemed to notice that she was not singing.

As the night wore on, people started to walk—or stagger, depending on how much wine they’d had—about the tent to start new conversations. Hasimi took the opportunity to withdraw from the company of Harrud and his severe friends; as she withdrew to the shadowy edges of the tent to watch the others, she was approached by the old man who had been with Takou in Yevalam earlier that day.

“You there, girl,” he said. He breathed heavily as he took short steps closer to her, one hand on his lower back as though trying to force himself more upright.

“Hasimi.”

“Yes, of course. Your mother, who was she?”

“. . . What?”  
  
“I asked who your mother was,” he said, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply through his nose. Hasimi noticed the slight twinge in his face as his chest swelled with air. “This Narik Shihiin fellow is your father, but . . .”

“I never knew my mother,” Hasimi said, shaking her head. “But my father says she was like a . . . Goddess? One of those things you settled folk pray to.”

“Hmph. An outrageous thing to say,” the old man said. “I place no stock in the gods, myself. But your eyes need explaining. Pink, remarkable.”

“What is ‘pink?’” Hasimi asked. The old man arched a brow, laughing until it gave way to a wheeze and rattle.

“The color of your eyes, girl!” he said, clearing his throat. “Wait, no, I understand. You people call that salt-red, don’t you. Riders are superstitious, do they think your eyes are cursed?”

“Some of th—”

“Do you see strange things with eyes like that?” the old man asked, taking another slow step closer, putting his face close to hers for a moment. He rocked back and rolled his eyes, whispering something to himself that she could not understand though she could read the sounds on his lips. “Have you ever been outside the valley?”

“No. But about my eye—”

“And do you know anything about how to conduct a siege?”

“Wha—you mean attacking something with walls?”

“Yes, that’s fine, fine,” the old man shuffled off without another word to her, though he spoke to himself seemingly faster and faster.

“Wait,” Hasimi called out to him, but he did not turn or look back. She moved to follow him, but noticed Takou waving her over to her table out the corner of her eye; she was seated alone now, Elamash and her generals having gone to mingle with the other chieftains, and motioned for Hasimi to sit on the cushion to her left.

“I saw you speaking to Doan Gi and looking confused,” Takou said.

“Yes, he is . . .”

“A strange man. You can speak plain, don’t worry,” Takou said, biting into the goat haunch in her hands. “I apologize if he said anything out of line.”

“Are all the people from his land like that?”

“Hah! No, that’s part of why he came over to my side. His own ruler made him an outcast. Used Gi’s mind to make weapons, then made a joke out of him for his strange manner. Took everything from him saying he was losing his wits to old age.”

“Why do you trust him, anyway?” Hasimi asked. “If he’d turn on his own people, doesn’t that just prove settled folk don’t understand kin?”

“I don’t trust him at all. I trust what he builds, because it always works. I trust what he knows about how settled people defend their cities, because it always turns out right. And I trust that he hates what the Silver River kingdoms did to him more than he hates Riders.” Takou said.

Hasimi nodded slowly.

“There was one other thing. Your father.”

“He was stupid to challenge you when he’s gotten weak. He’s not the man from those stories anymore.”

Takou folded her arms across her chest and stared into the nearest fire. “Maybe not, but he’s still a man. Let me ask you this: what do you hope to gain from joining up with me?”

“Like you said, it’s the greatest hunt. The glory will—”

“Let me give you a friendly warning right now,” Takou said, putting an arm around Hasimi’s shoulder. “Don’t pretend around me. I’ve already crossed blades with you, you’re strong like me. There are easier ways you or I could make names for ourselves.”

Hasimi blinked, back tensed for a moment. She looked at her hands, clenching both into fists.

“I want to see the rest of the world and find out how far my strength can take me. I figured it out in my last battle, I’m tired of fighting the same weak people in this little valley. I have to get out.” She bit her lip as she realized she was raising her voice little by little. “That’s nobody else understands. You do, though, don’t you?”

Takou chuckled. “I understand well. But that’s not reason enough for me to give up everything I have to get here. Look around this tent and tell me what you see.”

Hasimi let her gaze wander across the faces and the fires; she lingered on one of the chieftains, letting all else fall away from her mind. She saw nothing but people having a feast. Takou, the strange mist absent from her, was smiling as she looked over the gathering.

“Shall I tell you what I see? I see my kin. Every chieftain in this tent, all their people outside, the entire horde, every last Rider in the whole of the plains—we’re all brothers and sisters.” She extended her arms, palms upturned to Hasimi. Patches of skin all around her wrists were discolored, rough, slightly sunken. “You see those? When the Mikshan were still around and our people were slaves, I belonged to some rich man’s idiot son. He was so clumsy putting on and taking off my bonds that he’d rip pieces of skin off or cut into me by accident.”

She cocked her head towards Aveyir, who was seated with five chieftains Hasimi didn’t recognize.

“He has some scars too; all of us carry that time in our bodies. That will never happen to our people . . . my kin again. That’s why it’s not enough for us to be free now. As long as the settled-folk can throw up bigger walls and grow their numbers, we have to live in fear of the day one of them will decide to put us in chains again. The only way we can be safe is if we stand as one, and the only thing that will get our people together is taking the fight to the settled-folk first.”

“I wish my father understood that,” Hasimi murmured. “He would have, when I was little.”

“He understands, I think. He cares about his family, just as I do. He fought to protect his daughter from war; I can respect that. If I had children I hope I’d go to those lengths to keep them from the things I’ve suffered.” Takou thumbed the scars along one of her wrists slowly. “Some of the chieftains who’ve sworn oaths to me have done so out of fear. Fear of what I could do to their clan if they said no. Others joined me to win a better life for their kin. The settled-folk fight for their little families, too. Keep those eyes open, and I think you’ll see that plenty of people want the same things.”

Hasimi fidgeted, furrowing her brow. Takou took notice and patted her heartily on the back, nearly knocking her over.

“For now, don’t worry about all that. Only thing I was going to say is that it’s a shame your father didn’t see things my way, but there’s no bad blood over it. Your clan will be treated the same as every other in the horde: as my own kin.”

“Thank you, chie—em, High Chief. So . . . what happens now? I mean, when do we start fighting?”

“I like your eagerness, but it will be a while yet. How long do you think it takes to ride from here to the middle of the heartlands?”

“Well, from one end of the valley to the other takes four days if you ride hard . . . two weeks?”

“Try seven. We’ll train while the horses rest on the ride back, but when we meet up with the rest of the horde, there will be more training. Once the Riders of the valley have carved everything we know into their bodies, well. Then we’re going to start with the Lenguts. I’d say four months in all.”

“Four months? It will be winter by then,” Hasimi said. Takou nodded.

“You let me worry about things like that. You make sure that your clan is ready for this; I promise you the world outside the valley is something else entirely.”


	12. Book I, Chapter 12

The clans of the valley readied themselves for two days. On the second night, the High Chief’s horde took down their camp and loaded their horses; it was a bright morning when tens of thousands of Riders set out east from Yevalam. Hasimi was surprised to find that Takou’s people led the way at a working trot despite all that they had brought and the great size of the camp; she remembered stories of the Mikshan being slowed by their supplies and her kin had no explanation. She rode ahead for a time until she noticed horses unsaddled and riderless among the horde. There was no mistaking it as she rode further ahead; all of Takou’s riders had at least two—often more—horses with them. She paused to consider the worn beast beneath her and fell back to rejoin her kin.

Each day of their journey they covered the sorts of distances that would have been the whole of a migration for the home camp. Within four days of setting out, the bluffs that stuck out from the earth everywhere in the valley had smoothed into flat grassland. Two days later, the encircling mountains she had known her whole life had receded all the way out of sight, so that the endless plains embraced the skies unadorned. The winds grew more sudden, and many a night on their way, she heard gusts howling against the tent the likes of which she’d not imagined.

Their days were taken up with riding and in the evenings when camp had been pitched, they trained. The first day of the journey, Hasimi was approached by one of Takou’s veterans and told to show up at a certain corner of the camp with bow in hand. She, a few of her kin, and many others she had never seen before, were given a fresh horse and shown the run of the targets. She balked the first time, but when she missed a bullseye that all the veterans hit on their passes, she fell silent. As they rode on the next day, trying not to shift about much in their saddles lest their aching backs protest the effort after the last day’s training. Some of the strangers she had trained with spoke to her, gave her their names; her kin mingled with the members of other clans and the veterans too.

On the eighth day, they crossed a wide but shallow stream whose clear waters reached down from the far unseen north and stretched south past the horizon; she had only heard stories of it before, but Hasimi knew that this was the western edge of the Heartlands. A hum of excitement rose up among the horde; a man riding next to her said he wanted nothing more than to bid his horse to gallop across those plains.

Mention of the valley was stricken from every tongue as they went further into the Heartlands. When they hunted, the herds of oxen, deer, and boars in the Heartlands were ten, twenty, fifty times greater than any they had yet seen. When they rode, a sudden thunder might sweep upon them only to reveal itself as a hundred horses fleeing a pack of wolves. The veterans promised the valleyfolk that they would tame new horses so that each Rider would have at least two. On some nights, shepherds came and sold their cheeses and wool to the horde.

They often passed within sight of squat wooden buildings with stables attached to them, but no farm or flock in sight. Messenger posts, one of the veterans told Hasimi, where they kept the fastest horses so that someone carrying the High Chief’s words could always ride fresh and with all haste. At least one serious-faced, small-bodied young woman would storm into camp each night, clutching a leather satchel like it was her own child, insisting on seeing the High Chief. During the sixth week, the man who’d led most of Hasimi’s training approached her with a smile.

“You’re going to be a bear. Remember that.”

He walked away, looking for someone else. Later she talked it over with some of the people she had trained with and heard that they were hawks, or boars, or wolves, or foxes, but none of them knew what it meant.  
Seven weeks and two days passed when they finally realized they had reached the middle of the Heartlands. There was no unusual landmark made by nature, nor any great ruin of the Mikshan Empire or those that came before. Instead, Hasimi saw stretched out before her a camp of countless tents and many times more people, utterly dwarfing not only the camps they had put up nightly, but even the city of Yevalam itself.

“How many you think there are?” someone nearby asked.

“I think she said twenty-thousand?” a young man answered.

“Two-hundred-thousand,” Hasimi said.

“Don’t seem possible,” the youth muttered. “Don’t seem possible.”

The veterans ended their conversations with the valleyfolk, telling them to wait for instructions and forging on ahead to melt into the camp as though they’d never left. Far ahead of Hasimi, some of the valleyfolk were starting to turn their mounts north at the urgings of a few men riding up and down the column.

“What’s going on?” Hasimi shouted as one passed nearby.

“New arrivals stay at the north corner of the camp until they’re assigned to units. Get moving!” the man barked, pointing as though any of the mass of tents could be told apart from each other.

The same drills that they had been performing with the veterans every evening throughout the journey were on display all over the camp, and many more besides. Those who weren’t training were hard at work making or mending clothes and armor, fletching arrows, whetting blades, caring for their horses, hauling huge pieces of wood or small pieces of metal worked into strange shapes.

The valleyfolk knew they’d arrived when they came upon a small outcropping of stone the height of a man less his head and wide enough for six horses, the only natural thing that rose from the flat expanse. A woman with long hair the color of rich earth stood atop it, fully armored below the neck, a hand resting on the grip of her sword. She was the same figure Hasimi had seen on the platform in Yevalam, face obscured.

“All right you lot,” she shouted. “The name’s Mardis. I’m a commander under Aveyir, I’ve been with the High Chief through six winters. One of my jobs is seeing to it that raw folk like you get turned into proper soldiers, and starting tomorrow your job will be to do whatever I or one of my captains tell you. You will be assigned to units at sunrise, so muster here before then. You will sleep in these tents until your new units have accepted you. That is all.”

The valleyfolk exchanged confused looks, but when Mardis had been silent for long enough that they understood her to be serious, they dismounted and set about finding stabling for their horses and food for themselves. A few of Hasimi’s kin sought her out, asking which tent they should take, but that night when they sat down for dinner in the one she’d chosen, she noticed missing faces; Ezud grumbled that there were some Shihiin he had not seen for days. As it was, they shared the tent with clans she knew by name and dress, but recognized none of the members.

The next morning came swiftly, but Hasimi was up well before the sun and set about rousing her kin as she found them and sending them to the stone. Mardis was again waiting there, now flanked by a handful of armored men and women, with still more of Takou’s veterans stood round the base of the rock. Hasimi recognized some of them as the drill leaders from their journey.

The rest of the valleyfolk streamed in from the various tents as dawn broke over the Heartlands. The stream slowed to a trickle, and each Rider looked back to his tent with more agitation than the one before. When the sun was well clear of the land, the soldiers ringing the rock looked to Mardis, who responded with a silent nod. They each walked to different tents, and before long a few drowsy valleyfolk were sent scurrying or stumbling out to the muster.  
One of Hasimi’s younger kin—Edhoun, was it?—gingerly held a brown feather in his hand as he approached.

“Morning, chieftain.” His yawn turned into a belch halfway through. “Drank too much.”

“What’s that for?” Hasimi asked.

“The feather? Dunno. Fellow was giving them out to all of still in the tent.”

“Then it’s probably something to mark you out for punishment,” Ezud whispered, stepping up from behind. The boy frowned and let go of the feather, only for the older man to catch it and stuff it back into his hand. “Idiot, you don’t think they’ve thought about that? You could get other people killed too.”

“W-wait, killed?” Edhoun said. Ezud put a hand over his mouth and closed the boy’s hand tighter around the feather, shaking his head.

“Now that everyone’s here, let me start by saying that you are part of the horde now. There are no clans in the horde, we’re all Riders and all kin. As such, the unit you are assigned to will be based on the needs of the horde and your skills as a warrior. These people with me have been training and observing you over the last few weeks for this moment.”

A man stood to Mardis’s right stepped forward.

“Foxes, you’re with me,” he shouted. “If you’re a Fox, form up with me. Doesn’t matter if you have a feather or not.” He hopped down from the rock and pushed his way through the confused crowd until he stood well apart from it, waiting with arms crossed over his chest. One man walked towards him, then another, then faces lit up as they understood the meaning of the animals they’d been told on their way. Before long, many mostly young valleyfolk were gathered near him, and followed as he led them back into the main body of the camp.

Another man came forward declaring for the wolves, the hawks, and so on. More and more of the crowd was led away by one of the armored warriors with each animal named, until Mardis stood alone on the rock, looking down over Hasimi and eight others. None of them were from her clan, only one had been in the group she’d trained with, each looked at each other nervously.

“All that remains are the Bears,” Mardis said. “You lot, with me.” She climbed down and walked not ahead of them, but among them, the veterans who’d given out the feathers earlier mixing in with the nine valleyfolk.

“Why are there so few Bears?” a young man with a patchy brown beard asked.

“What do the animals even mean?” asked Palar, the broad-shouldered fellow whom Hasimi had trained with.

“Some animals are stronger than others. It’s all about how much potential you’ve shown. If you’re a Bear, it means we think you lot are the best warriors out of all the Riders in the valley, or you could be,” Mardis said. “Congratulations.”

A few smiles, chuckles, and cheers came up among the nine.

“Of course, that means your training will be the toughest of the lot.”

“Tougher than what we’ve been doing?” one of the women asked. The veterans laughed.

They walked clear across the camp past the other units where the new recruits were being introduced to their comrades; when they passed by a gathering of the Boars, one of the valleyfolk was up on a raised wooden platform, kneeling with the captain standing over him, sword in hand.

“What is that? What’s happening?” Hasimi asked.

“Ah, yes, you should see this,” Mardis said, raising a hand so that the whole group stood still. “That man from the valley was given a brown feather because he missed muster. Everyone given a brown feather will be executed for failing to follow orders.”

“Executed? For waking up late?”

“This is not the valley, we are not small clans and neither are our enemies. We are fighting settled folk who hate us and our way of life, and we need to be strong enough to crush them. Warriors who can’t do something simple like wake up on time on their first real day have no place in this horde. Such disobedience cannot be tolerated,” Mardis said.

The captain brought the sword down and took the young man’s head off in one smooth stroke before beckoning two veterans to drag the next terrified recruit up to the platform.

“We honor the old laws here.” Mardis resumed walking, urging the others along. “You lot are stronger than the rest of the valleyfolk; so long as you remain true, you will flourish here. But even the strongest warrior is useless to the High Chief if they don’t have discipline. Never forget that.”


End file.
